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TALLULAH AND JOCASSEE;

oR,

ROMANCES OF SOUTHERN LANDSCAPE,

AND

OTHER TALES.

ad

BY T. ADDISON RICHARDS.

CHARLESTON:
WALKER, RICHARDS & CO.
: 1852.
Aq $i 24

 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
WALKER, RICHARDS & CO.,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of
South-Carolina.

 
CONTENTS.

Page.

I. Tattunan; or The Trysting Rock, - - - 1

Il. Jocasses; or Il Capannetto, - 103

II. Taz Parenoxoaisr; or The Tactics of Dr. Cranium, 193
IV. Tue Travetizrs’ Crus; or Lights and Shades of

Locomotion, - - - - - - 211

V. “Dow’r pe Basurut,” -  - - - - 229

VI. Ovz Goop Turn Duszrves Anorner, - ~ 249
TALLULAE;
OR, THE TRYSTING ROCK.

 

CHAPTER I.

“Your pardon, sister, and yours, grave sir,” exclaimed

Charles Rattleton, gaily approaching a lady and gentleman,
apparently absorbed in interesting converse, in a recess some-
what apart from the throng which filled the ball-room of the
Madison Springs, on the night of August —, 18—; “I should
hesitate to interrupt your pleasant déte-a téte, did I not know
that Mr. Alston will willingly sacrifice his little comforts to
the pleasures of others; so, out of consideration to the wishes
of our fair friends, expressed and understood, he must e’en
enter my service; away to the dance, and both merit and
receive a hearty welcome to our ‘ Castle of Indolence.’”

“ Come, come,” he continued, as Alston was about to ex-
cuse himself, “such is our royal will and pleasure, Sir Knight :
here you lounge within the magic precincts of Terpsichore’s
joyous court, as regardless of the royal presence as if musing
on arugged peak of Parnassus, or dreaming on the green
sward of some sweet valley; soothed with all the parapher-
nalia of purling streams and whispering brooks, blending
with the choruses of lark and bob o”-lincoln minstrelsy, while
half the saloon are dying to be presented to the distinguished
Mr. A. And you, sweet sister, must diffuse the light of your
countenance more impartially, and where your smiles will be
better appreciated, than by my insensible friend: for you

1
2 TALLULAH ;} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

must know, that despite his reputed gallantry, he is a dream-
ing recluse; indeed, from some cause or other, an incorrigible
sworn old bachelor; a living refutation of the assertion of
the equitable King Theseus, that

‘The power of love

In earth and sea, and air and heaven above,
Rules unresisted with an awful nod.”

‘When Charles had exhausted his eloquence and his breath,
and had given his friend an opportunity to reply, Mr. Alston
excused himself from mingling in the festivities of the eve-
ning, by pleading his very recent arrival, and the fatigues of
a long journey, adding, “you must pardon my barbarous
insensibility, if I decline a presentation to the company on
this occasion, as the interval, until the hour of my departure
to-morrow, is so very short, that I feel but little disposed to
form new acquaintances.”

“ Departure to-morrow! Now, by all that’s rational, you
jest,” exclaimed Charles; “surely, you cannot meditate such
a slight to the attractions of this happy spot; scarcely allow-
ing yourself to breathe an atmosphere redolent of nought
but beauty, indolence and ease, the favourite demesne of my
thoughtless, light-hearted little goddess, Lubentia herself.
Laura, the poor youth is certainly dreaming ; come, dear, per-
suade him that he is non compos, and bring him to his senses
as quickly as possible.”

“ Unfortunately, brother, my eloquence and rhetoric are
already enlisted on the opposite side. Mr. Alston’s principal
object in visiting our ‘sunny land’ is to induige himself with
a glimpse of the beauties of our hill region, our cascades,
mountains and valleys; but more particularly he seems desi-
rous to behold the mad vortex of Tallulah. He says that
his time is short, and but for his accidentally hearing of our
presence here, his journey to-day would have continued some

 

 
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 3

miles beyond the Springs. Not only have I heard his inten-
tions patiently, but have even condescended to applaud them,
and promised to urge you to follow his example. Now, as
we intend visiting the highlands before we return home, why,
dear Charles, not do so immediately, and join Mr. Alston to-
morrow in his travels? Such is the conspiracy we have form-
ed to tear you from your favourite home; and unless you
consent to the plan, I must keep my promise, and tease you
until you do. So say yes! or prepare for an overwhelming
deluge of reasons, entreaties, prayers, tears 2

“Now, God forbid!” exclaimed Charles, as the last words
reached his ears, in assumed terror, “that I should do aught
to mar so sociable a plan. Sister! I ery you mercy; and
although I cannot, for the life of me, see a shadow of sense
in your sudden departure from this quiet place, for the vex-
ations and toils of travel in a rugged country, with larderless
and comfortless inns; still I wave my own humble opinion
in deference to my restless friend, and my novelty-loving sis-
ter. Yet, had we not better delay our trip, say a few days ?
There is doubtless a vast deal of romance in jolting and
bruising over villanous roads, and starving on the picturesque ;
yet, hang me, if I would not prefer a gentle drive over the
well-graded vicinity of the Springs: a walk to the bower and
fountain at the end of yon shady grove, to the toilsome as-
cents to mountain tops; and the gentle current of mine host’s
claret and champagne, to all the floods that ever toppled from
the precipices of Tallulah or Tovcoa. I am satisfied with
imagining the one, bul. the other requires a more intimate
acquaintance. But, sister, I supposed you too much wedded
to our present residence to leave it so readily.”

“ The season, brother,” retarned Laura, “is rapidly passing,
our numbers are daily decreasing, and, to tell the truth, lam
tired of the Springs, of the listless, profitless nature of life at

 
4 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

a watering place; I am weary of the monotony of our em-
ployments; am surfeited with walks, music, dancing, cards,
and the endless siege of vapid gallantries and heartless cour-
tesies. Besides, so much have we to see, that it is time we
began our journey, if we reach home before winter; and
cousin Lucy has, notwithstanding her gentle nature, betrayed
symptoms of impatience at our protracted visit here, and
much as her good humour and affectionate disposition contri-
bute to the happiness of our circle, nothing, I know, would
delight her more than to exchange a scene in which she de-
rives little pleasure, beside that which results from contribu-
ting to the joys of others, for the blithe air and romantic
beauties of our northern counties.”

Charles laughed merrily at the first part of his sister’s
reply, so much was he amused at the grave tone and unwont-
ed sentiments of a being, who, from her habitual life and
gayety, he had always imagined as thoughtless as himself;
but the allusion to cousin Lucy checked his mirth.

“ Ah!” he replied, “ our little angel is so careful of intru-
ding her own wishes, where she thinks they may clash with
the whims of others, that I had forgotten her penchant fur
Tallulah. Her character is one that will please you, Mr.
Alston: a heart that embraces in its affections the humblest
of God’s creatures : an imagination wild as the veriest dream,
tempered by a spirit of quick and just observation; and a
naturally strong mind, improved to the highest by a life of
unremitted and successful study ; added to which, a temper-
ament joyous as the carol of the lark as he soars to kiss the
first beams of the rising sun, and which has not been des-
troyed, but only chastened and curbed by repeated, and what
to ordinary hearts would have proved overwhelming, afflic-
tions. Sister! I like not these visits to Tallulah for several
years. We have long indulged her romantic attachment to
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 5

that spot, which, although we may divine the cause, we know
to be utterly hopeless. We-really must discontinue our sum-
mer journeys, and even now deprive ourselves of the pleasure
of accompanying Mr. Alston in his rambles. I have ob-
served that our annual visits to Tallulah but add to her grad-
ually growing melancholy, which, although, for the sake of
her friends, she may endeavour to hide or overcome, preys but
too evidently upon her spirits ard health—though, perhaps,
after all,” he added suddenly in a gayer.tone, and one more
in keeping with his usual character, “"tis but the watural
effect of a scene of such fearful sublimity, upon all but the
most callous hearts ; for I will acknowledge, that little of the
romantic as there is in my own disposition, and often as I
have seen Tallulah, I am by no means unwilling to repeat the
visit; and, if I recollect aright, you told me last summer,
Mr. Alston, that once in your days of vagabondage, yourself
wandered to this very spot, and yet you are in as much
haste to return as though you had never seen cascade in your
life, instead of having gazed upon all the water-falls in the
world, from Tivoli to Niagara.”

“ You!” exclaimed Laura Rattleton, turning to Mr. Alston,
“how provoking! Here I have been fancying the pleasure
I should experience in ciceroning you over the Falls, and my
triumph,” she added, while a deep amor patria lent a glow
of enthusiasm to her beautiful countenance, “in listening to
the praises of my native State, from one so able to appre-
ciate and judge as Mr. Alston. I thought you had never
been in Georgia before! pray, when were you here, and what
secret reason now proimpts such a hasty re-visit? Come, sir!
I put you ’pon honour, and demand an instant and honest
reply to my very reasonable queries. Charles! I'll be bound
that ‘thereby hangs a tale.’ ”

“Sister, 1 think you are right. Nay, I will swear it,”
1*
6 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

cried Charles, observing a slight crimson steal over the cheeks
of his friend, “on my fame, sister, as a physiognomist, I'll
swear it !”

Frank Alston instantly recovered his usual air of compo-
sure, and said, smilingly, that he regretted his experience
enabled him to furnish no satisfactory reason for the circum-
stance that had so excited Miss Rattleton’s curiosity, unless,
indeed, Miss R. would believe the effect left upon his mind
by such a scene, at an age when his heart was peculiarly sus-
ceptible of impressions of the beautiful and grand, was such
that he could not resist the impulse to behold it again. “It
might not,” he continued, “so affect me now, butcan you not,
Miss Laura, remember spots which in past days, when the
feelings were fresh, and every object struck the unhackneyed
eye with an air of novelty and beauty, left a vivid impression
upon your memory, which you could scarcely account for
when a visit in after years tore off the veil? And now that
IT have faithfully passed the ordeal of the confessional, may I
beg to know what mysterious causes so irresistibly attract
your fair friend to these fatal Falls? I would not ask, but I
remember you often spoke of her when we first met at Sara-
toga, and you then promised to relate to me some incidents
in her history; but as yet I have not learned even her name.
Now, despite the depreciating charges of Charles, I do assure
you I am by no means an indifferent observer of beauty and
worth—more particularly when in distress ; and a pensive tale
replete as her’s must be with poetry and incident, has for me
singular interest. Dryden, through Charles’ own royal The-
seus, has declared, that

‘A general doom on man is past;
And all are fools or lovers first or last,’

And as my vanity forbids my pleading guilty to the first
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. v

charge, how knows he that I am innocent or can long remain
so of the latter ?”

“Ah! ah! Frank Alston in love!” cried Charles. “Laura,
Mr. A. is a poet, and, ideally speaking, his whole life is a
dream of love; but you know that he regards your sex with
the admiration which he bestows upon creations of the sta-
tuary or upon the beautiful in inanimate nature. His love is
that spiritual emotion which a mortal cherishes towards a
supernatural being. When the object of his worship stands
in palpable, living humanity before him, like Byron’s, his
fancy :

‘Is degraded back to earth,

And all is clay again,
But I see he is really interested, and if he condescends to love
any thing, surely it would be such a creature as Lucy Staugh-
ton. Come, Laura,” he continued, not observing the start of
surprise with which Alston heard her name, “ commence
‘once upon a time,’ and I promise you two as patient audi-
tors as one might desire, if indeed Mr. Alston is not too in-
tently absorbed with other thoughts, for really he must be
thinking of a voyage to the third heavens.”

Mr. Alston declared himself all attention and anxiety,
which he really was.

“The story,” said Laura, “is short and deeply tinged with
gloom, as you have already learned. I will add, if possible,
to its brevity in my relation, for I have little fondness for
scenes or tales of sorrow.”
8 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

CHAPTER II.

“Lucy Sraveurow was born amid the romantic hills of
CumberJand,in England. Her parents held high rank among
the wealthy gentry of her native land. Clear and bright as
was the horoscope presented at her nativity, dark and omi-
nous clouds quickly overshadowed the scene, and after years
fatally contradicted the first happy presage. She had lived
but through two summers, when a fatal sickness deprived her
of a mother’s care, and was the first of a series of afflictions
that made her an orphan at an early age. This calamitous
event was followed quickly by the loss of the principal part
of her father’s estates, through the treachery of his brother.
These sad visitations he but impatiently bore. His native
place became hateful to him, and he resolved to leave forever,
a spot that awakened such painful reflections.

“Lucy was but three years of age when she embarked with
her father and a brother—one year her senior——at London,
for the United States of America. Mr. Staughton had de-
clined even the company of his family nurse, both that her
presence would but recall former scenes, and that he hoped
the exertion requisite to the care of his children would ope-
rate as a relieve to his sadness.

“Sorrows, which come not single spies, seemed to pour in a
torrent upon this devoted family. Hardly, after a tedious
voyage, had they caught a glimpse of the shores of New-
Jersey, when one of those equinoxial tempests, so fatal upon
our coasts, bore their ship upon a dangerous reef, where she
suddenly went to pieces, most of the crew and passengers
ending their voyage in an ocean grave.

“ Lucy and her father escaped ; by what means it boots not,
the dangers of the wreck, but it was only to experience the
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 9

mournful consciousness of another sad bereavement, in the
loss of an only son on the part of Mr. Staughton, and on
Lucy’s, that of a brother, who, young as she was, she remem-
bers even then to have fondly loved. Nothing was ever seen
of him after the fatal night. She never now speaks of Henry
but with deep emotion, and I often detect her gazing intently
upon a miniature likeness of him, painted on his fourth birth-
day, and which she has sacredly treasured, since the moment
it was hung round her neck by her father, shortly before
leaving England. This little incident is a striking instance
of the unalterable devotion of her heart, a constancy of
which her life exhibits most powerful evidence. She values
the miniature the more, that her father, in his fondness for
his children, had given to her brother, at the same time, a
picture of herself at the age of three years, set in a manner
precisely similar to the other.

. “For a time Mr, Staughton appeared heart-broken ; but a
consciousness of the necessity of exertion, together with the
novelty of his situation, operated favourably upon his spirits.
With the property he had brought with him, and which,
being about his person in bills of exchange, had escaped the
ravages of the wreck, he embarked in business in Boston, as
a merchant. This was to him an entirely new era in life, but
as years flew round, he became again a man of wealth;
while Lucy, the idol of his love, sprung into young woman-
hood, adorned with all the acquirements and accomplishments
amassed by an intelligent and active mind thirsting for im-
provement, and assisted by the ablest instructions that opu-
lence could command. Since leaving England, however, Mr.
Staughton was, in every respect, a changed man; and now»
declining health induced him to leave his business in other
hands, and to visit the Southern States. He passed several
months in the city of , where he still procured for

 
10 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Lucy the best instructors the place afforded. Among them
was a teacher of music, a young man who had but recently
arrived in the city, yet had already attracted great attention,
both on account of his exquisite skill in his profession, and a
certain air of gentlemanly breeding, to which it was impossi-
ble not to bow, added to very prepossessing manners, and
unusual literary abilities. His society was eagerly courted,
but he seemed to shun notice, any further than his duties
rendered necessary. His talents, his reserve, and the mys-
tery that hung over his life, and which he appeared in no
wise disposed to unravel, added to tastes which harmonized
happily with her own, soon awoke deep interest in the heart
of poor Lucy.

“Mr, Staughton became aware of this unhappy circumstance,
at the moment his mind was harassed with advices of the
precarious situation of his own mercantile affairs, in a period
of general commercial embarrassment. His character was
naturally proud and haughty, and wanting the christian for-
titude and confidence possessed by his daughter, to endure his
trials with meekness and resignation, his natural reserve had
deepened toa feeling of almost forbidding sternness. At
any time he would have despised so humble a connection for
Lucy, but now, when even the means upon which he depend-
ed for her support were flitting away, to give his only—his
idolized child, to a penniless adventurer, seemed to him pre-
posterous! madness! He angrily and peremptorily forbade
further intimacy, and charged Lucy to banish forever from
her heart all thoughts of the stranger.

“To effect his object, Mr. S. at the same time left ;
and made a tour through the northern parts of this State.
While at Tallulah, he had left Lucy alone for a few moments
at the Trysting Rock, a recess overhung with massive rocks,
half way down the only path leading to the bottom of the

 
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 11

great ravine. Here she was met by Arthur Pembroke, who
had followed her to the spot. The interview was brief. The
lover urged her to fly: flung himself at her feet; professing,
in most passionate terms, unalterable affection. Lucy was
inflexible. She loved him, if possible, with even a deeper
intensity of passion; but she loved her father. His will had
ever been to her an undisputed law, even in heart or thought.
She was firm ; calmly informed him of the absolute necessity
of their eternal separation ; avowed her unalterable resolve,
while Pembroke rushed madly from her presence.

“Mr. Staughton, on regaining the Trysting Rock, found his
daughter half lifeless on the ground. When returning ani-
mation brought back her courage, her father, in great anxiety,
returned with her in all haste to the little inn, in the vicinity.
It was then,” continued Laura, after a pause, “that my parents,
with Charles and myself, first met them ; we had just arrived at
the inn. Mr. Staughton’s anxiety for his daughter, and his
unwonted exertions, brought on a sudden return of his mala-
dy. In these distressing circumstances, and while the place
supplied but scanty accommodation, and no comforts, we ven-
tured to offer our sympathy and aid. It was gratefully received.
Several days passed before Mr. S. was able to travel. When
that time arrived, at our earuest solicitations, they accompa-
nied us to our own home.

“Mr. Staughton’s business concerns, in the meanwhile, suf-
fered a total weeck ; the news of which, in spite of our vigi-
lance, reached the invalid. The shock was too much. llis
exhausted frame sunk under it, and his mournful life was
over. With his last breath, he committed Lucy to our care.
It was unnecessary. From the first hour of our acquaintance
she became a favourite: and her noble conduct, during her
father’s illness, so won each heart, that we resolved to use
every effort to retain her as a daughter and sister, in our
12 TALLULAH 5} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

family. She watched her father’s couch with angelic patience
and affection, and with a fortitude that surprised us all. After
the burial came the effects of her continued vigils; the grief
she had before nobly restrained, now broke out so madly,
that for weeks her life was despaired of. Once, even, her
death was announced in the gazettes. During her fever and
delirium, she raved of Arthur Pembroke, and called upon
her mother, father and brother, in the most piteous accents.
She slowly recovered, and since then has ever been the idol
of our family. Her father’s proud spirit breaks forth occa-
sionally, and she seems oppressed with the idea that she is at
all dependant upon us. She even speaks seriously of adopting
some means to relieve us of the burthen of her support.
Poor Lucy,” half soliloquized the generous and affectionate
Laura, “she would not express such feelings or entertain
them, did she know the pain it gives us, and how much we
love her.”

“Since Arthur’s abrupt flight at the Trysting Rock, nothing
has been heard of him. Lucy mourns him as dead, or if
not, what is far worse and would prove fatal to her confiding
heart, he has long since forgotten her. Since then she has
refused numerous admirers—wealthy and deserving suitors,
I believe she still cherishes his memory with unalterable fond-
ness ; and from her character, I doubt not, she will carry the
feeling to her grave.

“Such is her tale; but what, Mr. Alston, is the matter
with you ?” exclaimed Laura, in alarm, observing that gentle-
man deeply agitated. “Surely a mere tale of wo, in which
you are in no wise interested, cannot so affect you ?”

Alston, who had listened with deep interest, started at Miss
Rattleton’s exclamations ; and in a moment replied, with
forced calmness, “ the story is sufficient to enlist the sympa-
thies of harder hearts than mine; but it bears much resem-
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 13

blance in points, to incidents in the life of a valued friend of
mine; one whom you met last year at Saratoga, Miss Rattle-
ton, and whom,” he added, smilingly, and with a provokingly
intelligent glance, “if my impression at the time was correct,
you have not yet forgotten.”

Laura blushed deeply at the words and look of Mr. Alston,
and as Lucy herself appeared at that moment, on her return
from a promenade to the fountain, she gladly embraced the
opportunity to change the conversation from the turn it had
taken, and hastened to receive her friend,

As Lucy seated herself, she bestowed a rather more atten-
tive glance at Mr. Alston than she usually granted to stran-
gers. Indeed, she was scanning his features with great
interest, when as Laura formally presented him, her gaze
changed to the usual calm, yet respectful look, with which
she was accustomed to receive every one. ,

Mr. Alston muttered the ordinary compliments, and after
a few general remarks, made his adieux for the evening, under
the plea of fatigue and indisposition, and to afford his friends
time to prepare for the morrow.

Laura, with her usual love of mischief, rallied her cousin
upon the interest she had seemed to take in Mr. Alston;
charged her with a new episode in her life of romance—* love
at first sight ;’—-and warned her to beware of her new ac
quaintanee, for he was as successful in winning hearts as Lucy
Staughton herself, and as indifferent to the prize when gain-
ed, she continued ; but observing that Lucy’s thoughts seem-
ed to ramble upon other matters, she informed her of the
projected expedition for the morrow, forgetting at the moment
her brother’s previous intimation to the contrary. Lucy’s
mind instantly returned from fairy land, and she expressed
her thanks to her cousin, and her great delight at the pleas-
ing intelligence. So overjoyed seemed she, that Charles

2
14 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

found it not in his heart to recall the plan. He soon con-
ducted the ladies from the saloon to make their arrangements
for the journey : while he, after giving the necessary orders
concerning his horses, repaired to his favourite domicil—a
log cabin retired from the main hotel, upon which the ladies,
in compliment to the jovial, reckless character of its inmates,
had lang-syne bestowed the soubriquet of Sodom. Here he
was soon deeply engaged in a game of whist, by way of fare-
well to the old place.

While the ladies are packing their innumerable band-boxes,
and Charles and his fellows are industriously driving dull
care from the apartments of “old Sodom,” we will indulge
thee, reader, with a more intimate peep into the character of
sundry of our dramatis persone.

CHAPTER ITI.

From the narrative of Laura Rattleton, enough has been
learned of the character of Lucy. Her desolate situation,
while it tamed the original volatility of her disposition, called
forth springs of the deepest feeling, which cast over all her
actions a winning air of pensive thoughtfulness and angelic
resignation, The same causes threw a striking and inexpli-
cable charns over her person and features. fer form, always
one that mivht delight the statuary, seemed to have gained
additional lightness and grace. She moved, or rather glided,
with a less buoyant and rapid step, though with a fairy-like
ease and noiscelessness. Her clear blue eye beamed with a
softer tenderness, and her lips, when graced with ler habitual,
chastened smile, spoke new volumes of gentle affection. The
blight of bope after hope had stulen from her cheek hues
TALLULAH 3 OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 15

that would have disgusted a painter with his pallette—but
had given instead, an ethereal transparency to a complexion
that always vied with the purest pearl, and which would now
have impressed Apelles with a consciousness of the impotency
of his art, even had he succeeded in portraying the matchless
loveliness of his Campaspe. A dress of deep mourning,
which she could never be induced to lay aside, heightened, if
possible, the unrivalled charms of her character and person.

Laura Rattleton was a light-hearted creature, over whom
the clouds of adversity had never hovered ; she was very like
what Lucey might have been, had the first happy omen of her
nativity proved true. She possessed a face and form of faultless
beauty ; a mind and fancy, highly and judiciously cultivated ;
feelings and passions of unwonted intensity; but which few
knew her to possess, as she was rarely seen in any other char-
acter than that of the acknowledged queen and leading spirit
of the gay butterflies of her acquaintance. Her gayety,
though resulting, in a great degree, from a temperament
naturally happy, sanguine and active, was not uninfluenced
by an ambition to perfect the character, tacitly assigned her
by her companions, and a dread of the raillery of her brother
Charles. Her dark piercing eye and sliyhtly arched lip, were
the index of much wit and mischief in her composition. She
delizhted to tease, though she would have shrunk from in-
flicting real pain. Conscious herself of the power her beauty,
talents and wealth, gave her, few but dreaded the shafts of
Laura Rattleton’s sarcasms. Many, who otherwise would
have aspired to her hand, shrunk back, while those who bold-
ly ventured to lay siege to the fair citadel, were repulsed only
to proclaim her a heartless coquette, yet still to attend the
beck of the gay sovereign.

One year previous to the opening of our story, she had
made a tour through the Northern States. At Saratoga
16 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Springs she had first met with Mr. Alston. She was there,
as at home, the acknowledged queen of beauty and love, and
among her conquests was Mr. Henry Morton, an intimate
friend of Mr, Alston. Mr. Morton, it was generally supposed,
had even made greater inroads upon the heart and fancy of
Laura. Circumstances called him suddenly to England ; the
Rattletons returned home, where for a time Charles rallied
his sister so unmercifully upon her adventure, that she as-
sumed such perfect indifference to the stranger, as to make the
affair completely forgotten, until her agitation at the remarks
of Mr. Alston that evening, had recalled all the incidents to
Charles’ mind, and delighted him with the assurance, that
his sister was vulnerable at more points than was the great
Achilles, Charles Rattleton believed himself perfectly inac-
cessible to the arts and stratagems of the boy-god, and noth-
ing pleased him more than to see his companions sinking
under the inflictions of his feathery shafts, more particularly
when the victim was one of those who has affected an indif-
ference and contempt of the puissance of the implacable little
deity.

Charles was, in disposition, much like his sister. He pos-
sessed a heart of real kindness, and springs of deep feeling
when the display was required. He always acted upon the
pretty maxim, “ cheerfulness is the best hymn to the deity,”
only his conduct sprung solely from an exuberant and irre-
pressible flow of animal spirits; a philosophic indifference to
real cares, and an utter contempt for mere imaginary trouble.
He extracted pleasure from every incident of life. Is it then
a wonder, that he was an oracle among associates of his own
sex, and a universal favourite and confident—dangerous dis-
tinction—among his fair companions? particularly when to
this attractive character, were added
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 17

 

“great charms of mind,

To which elegance of outward form was joined ;

While youth made these bright objects still more bright,

And fortune set them, in the strongest light.’’
Very different from Charles Rattleton was Frank Alston ;
indeed, did we compare him in any points to either of our
corps, it would be to Lucy Staughton. He was now in the
prime of manhood ; like Lucy, his nativity was in the beau-
teous clime of happy England; like hers, his parents held
respected and honoured rank in the communily, which they
still retained, having happily escaped the trials that crushed
the fated Staughtons. In his youth some follies into which he
was led, through the influence of reckless associates, so morti-
fied his proud heart, that suddenly he left home and rambled
to America. Here he first contracted an intimacy with
Laura’s admirer, Henry Morton. In his wanderings he was
overtaken by a protracted illness. On his recovery he found
his resources nearly exhausted. The situation was new to
him; he knew not what to do; to return home was out of
the question, and to write to his father for funds, was an idea
not for a moment entertained by his proud heart. He was
accustomed to think and act for himself; and with the prompt-
ness that enabled him so resolutely to brave his father’s dis-
pleasure in leaving England, he determined that his talents
should support him. In very early youth he gave evidence
of unusual mental powers and a fervid, vigorous imagina-
tion, from which his friends predicted great distinction in
after life. His early years, however, fled in dreamy inactivi-
ty ; still he wrote verses, evidently the product of a mind that
required only the spurs of adversity and necessity, to bring
it forth from the murky clouds, into the clearness and glory of
noon-day. Passionately fond of the fine arts as well as poe-
try, he had acquired great skill in both music and drawing.

#2
18 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROOK.

His present misfortunes proved the very means of drawing
forth his proper character. All symptoms of the morbid,
restless traits of his early yeais vanished, and his success in
life seemed certain ; when, from some cause, he abruptly re-
turned home, and long indulged his old humour. Despite
this circumstance, his proud and ambitious spirit forbade idle-
ness, and the predictions of his friends were rapidly accom-
plishing in the distinction every where won by his transcend-
ant genius. He was at the height of his fame, when a year
before we now find him in Georgia, he had revisited America,
and had formed an affectionate intimacy with Charles Rattle-
ton and his sister.

CHAPTER IV. :
op?

Tr was late the next day before our party were ready to
commence their journey ; so many objections to. their leaving
had to be combated, so many adieus exchanged, and so many
trifles to be thought of. Finally, all was settled; farewells
exhausted ; kisses expended; and the carriages rattled along
the avenue, lined on either side with picturesque cottages and
cabins—passed the grand entrance of the Springs, and were
fairly following their hearts to the highlands. The morning
was unusually brilliant. The late sultriness was banished by
a gentle shower of the previous night. The air was cool and
pleasant, and even Charles appeared delighted with the change;
so much so, that his sister retorted upon him the accusation
of “novelty-loving,” which he had bestowed upon her the
night before, and charged him with faithlessness to his first

‘love.
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 19

“Here is Charles,” cried she, “ after all his boasted antipa-
thy to travel, as glad to leave his favourite Springs as was the
restless Childe Harold his home, whea he sung, ‘ My native
land, good night.’”

“Not so fast, gentle sister ; rather compare me to Rogers’
rustic hero, who, on leaving his mother’s hearth,

‘Turns of the neighbouring hill, once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy;

And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,

The smoke’s blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
All rouse reflection’s sadly, pleasing train,

And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.’ ”

With the last line, Charles turned with a most lugubrious
gaze towards their late home, which was now rapidly fading
from his sight. This “last, long, lingering look,” together
with the tone in which he ended his quotation, produced from
all an uncontrollable burst of mirth.

“Ah! ah!” be replied, “I see you are resolved that I
shall be happy, despite circumstance or place. Well, by our
lady, you are right! and as for place, why should we not be
as contented in one spot as another? What says the poet?
‘No sky is blue, no leaf is verdant; it is our vision that kath
the azure and thegreen. It is that which expands and causes
to diminish, things which are in themselves ever the same ;’
and so he goes on to discourse, most truly and eloquently,
like a good philosopher of the Rattletonian school. A mur-
rain, say I, upon the long visaged traitor that can greet such
a glorious day as this, other than with a welcoming smile!
Yes: yes: trust me friends,

‘Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.’ ”

Charles’ joyous humour proved so contagious, that hour after
20 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROOK.

hour the conversation and the laugh were unabated in the
little cavalcade.

It was past mid-day when the carriages entered the little
town of Carnesville, a distance of fourteen miles from Madi-
son, and just one half of the day’s contemplated stage. Here
they paused only to partake of a hasty repast, for as they
were to spend the night at the Currahee Mountain, they
were desirous of the advantage of an approach to the spot
ere night-fall. The village itself, small, and wearing a very
dingy aspect, presented no inducement for a protracted so-
journ. Charles’ sarcasms upon the few black, dilapidated
wooden houses and the rugged streets, were received very
good humouredly by the host, blended as they were with
much of drollery and hilarity. THis refusal to partake of the
dubious wines of tbe hostel, was even excused by virtue of his
manfully pledging his landlord in a bumper of water from a
noted and valuable lime-stone spring in the village, which
Charles declared to rival the richest ambrosia ever gulped
upon Olympus. He would have persuaded his companions
to test its quality, but they unanimously professed such un-
bounded confidence in the justness and ability of Mr. Charles
Rattleton’s judgment, and more particularly in the relish
with which they had observed him to empty the glass, that
further trial on their part was very unnecessary.

After duly invoking the kind protection of St. Julian, as it
behooves all good travellers to do, they were again en route,
with a resolve to make all speed for their night-quarters.
Many little interruptions, however, greatly retarded their pro-
gress. Pauses had to be granted, while the occupants of one
vehicle communicated with the inmates of the others. The
gentlemen had to chase butterflies and pluck wild flowers,
that ever and anon elicited the admiration or envy of the
TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 21

ladies. Laura Rattleton first insisted upon driving Mr. Al-
ston’s sulky, while he took her seat in her brother’s barouche
—a freak prompted as much by kindness as fancy! Then
she would ride horseback, and again walk or run, whenever
the approach to a brook, spanned by a narrow, rickety log,
for a bridge, invited her adventurous spirit. Once she even
insisted upon taking passage for a mile, in a cart they en-
countered on the way, while she gave the astonished negro
practical lessons in horse-and-cartmanship. These and sun-
dry other little freaks, so beguiled the time that the sunset,
and even the twilight hour, had passed before they caught a
glimpse of the mountain. Night's shadows unmitigated by
light of moon or star, enveloped them. They still slowly
pursued their route, ignorant of the distance they were from
the inn, until reaching a place where the road branched, it
became necessary to hold a council of travel before further
advance. The left-hand path being the broadest and plainest,
it gained the suffrages of all save Charles, who though he
had, for some year or two past, taken another route to the
Falls, retained some slight recollections of the road. He as-
sured them that “ broad was the road that leads to destruc-
tion,” but despite the august authority by which he support-
ed his opinion, it was overruled.

The path selected traversed the base of the east side of the
mountain, and though once the main route, was now so dan-
gerously out of repair, that it had long since been neglected
for the more circuitous and safe road to the right, which they
had rejected.

Laura was still mounted en cavalier, as they turned into
the old path, and she persisted in so travelling, alleging it to
be safer than the carriage. Their progress was snail-like, and
a feeling of still greater anxiety gathered around all but
Charles, who, to cheer them, increased his volubility, and
22 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

broke out into a loud and merry song. The tones, breaking
on the mountain rocks, were startlingly re-echoed on every
side. The effect was the very reverse of what he designed ;
the hollow echoes of the song, added to the night chillness of
the mountain air, though in the midst of summer, but deep-
ened the gloom. Even Charles was silent, as he carefully
guided his trusty steeds. Horse, chariot and rider, were in-
visible, and there was something unearthly in the rumbling
of the wheels, the suppressed whispers of the party, and the
occasional ringing of the horses’ hoofs, as striking upon some
of the many rugged stones that lined the road, they drew
forth startling gleams of vivid light, that but served to aug-
ment the impenetrable darkness. Their progress grew mo-
mently more hazardous, when an instant of painful suspense
was broken by a lough neigh from the watchful steeds, and a
shriek of terror from Lucy, that wrung fearfully through the
silent air, and was flung in reverberating echoes from rock to
rock of the neighbouring hills, when Charles Rattleton instant-
ly, and almost unconsciously, was standing on the ground and
checking the struggles of the horses to free themselves from
the prostrate vehicle. Laura’s horse, affrighted at the confu-
sion, became unmanageable, and dashed impetuously down
the rugged defile; for a while she nobly grasped the reins,
and vainly struggled to arrest his speed. On he rushed with
lightning haste, until stumbling on the brink of a slight pre-
cipice, her fate seemed inevitable. She saw the danger but
for a moment—her strength deserted her—a dizziness and
weakness paralyzed her nerves, and exhausting her breath in
a faint seream, she was no longer able to avert, or conscious
of, her fate.
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 23

CHAPTER V.

Tue time of which we now write is a period some month
or two prior to the date of the incidents detailed in the pre-
ceding chapters. It was summer; the sun had long set; a
gentle breeze had substituted a delicious coolness, for the
sultriness of the departed day: the brilliant and delightful
twilight, so peculiar to England, threw a singular charm over
the landscape. The hearts of the humble villagers of Con-
way seemed in unison with the calmness and repose of na-
ture. Various groups were gathered beneath the latticed
porches, fragrant with the honey-suckle and eglantine that
ornamented the little cottages of the simplest Jabourers ; gay
maidens and sun-burnt swains, tripped with a natural grace
to the measures of the merry viol; while the elder members
of the community, after the honest toils of the day, enjoyed
the present moment, unalloyed with corroding reflections
upon the past, and unembittered with futile and unhallowed
ambitions for the future. Bats and balls and rolling hoops
engaged the attention of the boys, and their ringing laugh,
followed by the approving smile of older and graver lips, pro-
claimed a scene of real heartfelt enjoyment. But on lifting
the eye from the simple homesteads to the lordly mansion,
occupying a noble eminence in the outskirts of the village,
and looking proudly down upon tbe residences below, with
what strange rapidity another scene is pictured upon the ca-
mera of the brain. The very aspect of the building, with its
grey massive walls and closed shutters, contrasting so vividly
with the neatly-painted and vine-clad cottages around, pro-
duces a chill upon the heart, arrests the warm flow of kindly
sympathy that the first scene had elicited, and whispers a
sullenness, reserve and seclusion, unsuited to pure happiness ;
a thought, only increased by the faint glimmer of a light,
24 TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

from a chamber in a retired part of the edifice. So seemed
to think the villagers, for, ever and anon, as they bent their
gaze upon the “ Hall,” as it was called, a shade came over
the brow, followed by an ominous shake of the head, or a half-
suppressed remark, touching its inmates; or as they glanced
again at their own peaceful homes, breathed their heartfelt
thanks that their own lot was not one of splendid misery.

“Ah, lack-a-day !” exclaimed a venerable dame, “ it is n’t
gold, my bairns, or great houses or broad lands, that brings
happiness. J thank God that he has given me a home, if it
is n’t as grand as the Hall, and a bed to rest my weary limbs
on, though it has n’t got the silk curtains and gay trappings
of the Squire’s, yet may be I don’t sleep less soundly than he
does, for all that. Why should I wish to roll in his grand
coach, while I have health and strength to walk in the beau-
tiful fields, and a heart to feel God’s mercies, and to thank
Him too ; which I think is more than he can do, if the truth
was known? What is all his wealth, if a guilty conscience
makes a bitter of every sweet? What good can it do him if
he has none to love him, and nong to love? No, I envy not
the great,” continued the dame, a tear stealing from her eye
as it rambled from the joyous revelry around, to the happy
and healthful countenances of her own family; ‘‘ I’m blessed
beyond my deserts, and I wish for nothing more.”

“True, dame, ye speak truly,” replied her husband, look-
ing affectionately from her to his children ; “ we have indeed
much to be thankful for—health, plenty, content, kindred and
friends, which, as you say, is more than the Squire in his
grand prison can boast. Yet I mind the day when Richard
Staughton was a lad, as gay and blithesome as the merriest
of yon roysterers. Richard, though, was always a proud
youth, and had many great fancies in his head, and I fear he
has paid dearly for his whistle.”
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 25

“Ah!” replied the dame, “those were happy days, and
the Hall was blithe enough then, while his old uncle lived.
But since his death, Richard Staughton has been another be-
ing. The immense riches of the uncle were too glittering a
prize for him, and his heart once set upon it, he was n’t the
man to be easily thwarted: I fear there was much foul play
in that matter. Ever since his brother Edward went to
Awerica, something seems to have preyed upon his spirits,
and since the news of his death, and that of poor Henry and
Lucy, he has lived so shut up in the Hail, that it seems more
like a haunted castle than a Christian house. Those sweet
little darlings! they were but mere babes, when the good
gentleman, heart-broken, left our merrie England; yet God is
merciful, and they are happier now than they would have
been if they had lived to inherit his rough fortune.”

“It’s many years ago,” replied the old man, “ yet I re-
member the day, as though it were but yesterday, and so do
others, no doubt, with more cause than Ido. It cost me the
company of my old friend, John Phillips, and a more honest
heart never beat.”

“ Ay, and me,” added the dame, “of my old crony, Nancy
Phillips; I thought the poor creature’s heart would have
broken, when Mr. Staughton refused her wish to go with him.
She was brought up in the family, and was the nurse of the
children from their birth. It’s very strange we have heard
nothing from them since they left.”

“T think with you,” said another of the group, “that Phil-
lips would not have gone across the water if he had not hoped
to have met with his old master, or at least to find Miss
Lucy.”

“No, no,” was the reply, “but the villainy of that scape-
grace son of theirs, Jack Phillips, was a hard blow to them,

8
26 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

and made them sick of the place, as Edward Staughton’s
misfortunes did him.”

“T have often thought,” said another, “that Jack knew
more of the secrets of the Hall than he ever acknowledged ;
and we all noticed how often he was seen with that villain
Dighton, after the will in favour of Sir Richard was proved.”

“ Murder will out,” added the dame, “and the guilty will
yet be punished. I have had strange notions in my head
ever since that young man was here awhile ago; the one we
all thought so much like poor Edward Staughton. I almost
fancied the good gentleman had left his grave; yet he told us
his father lived in America.”

“ Would to God, Harry did live,” said her husband ; “ but
that is not at all likely, dame; ’tis many years since we heard
of his death in the wreck of the ship that cerried the family
over the water. But hark! what noise is that—a horse’s
hoof—there he goes. Dighton returned, by St. Nicholas, and
riding fur the Hall as for life! What new mystery now;
something I trow, for mischief always fullows that man’s
path.”

Here we leave the cottagers to their speculations, upon this
interruption to their tattle, and follow the rider to the man-
sion of Sir Richard Staughton. This gentleman was now
approaching the sear and yellow leaf of life, yet still exhibit
ed an erect and well moulded figure, with a countenance of
much manly beauty, except that, apparently trom bitter cares
and long vigils, his features had assumed a gloomy and harsh
expression, mingled with an occasional sinister glance, which
he seemed to have acquired from long cherished fear, or dis-
trust and suspicion of his fellow-men.

Sir R. was reclining on a couch in the apartment already
Mentioned, as the only one lighted in the extensive mansion ;
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROOK. 27

a knock at the door aroused him from his revery, and the
servant announced a visit from Mr. Dighton.

“Tell him I am unwell, and will see him in the morning.”

“He says, your honour, that his business is urgent, and
brooks no delay.”

“ Business—urgent !” replied Sir R.; “ well—well—show
him up.”

“T give you good evening, Sir Richard,” said Dighton, en-
tering the apartment, and hastily filling a glass from a decan-
ter of Rhenish, upon the buffet; “though by the rood how
long I may be able to address you as Sir Richard, I know
not.”

“Treturn your salutation, Dighton, though what brings
you back to Conway so unexpectedly, and what the latter
clause of your address means, I cannot surmise,” replied Sir
Richard, with his usual cool indifference to surprise, yet
glancing an inquiring eye at his visitor ; “ speak, man !”

“Calmly, my good Sir Richard,” said Dighton, laughing
and refilling his glass; “faith, I have ridden hard, and this
beverage is in no wise ungrateful. Let me fill you a glass,
and then to my news.”

“Dighton,” said the host, “I would give much for your
cool contempt of fortune’s ugly pranks. I always thought
myself quite aw fait, in sneering at the old lady’s frowns, but
by all that’s impudent, as you would say, I verily believe,
that if the amiable Charon had jou in that questionable bark
of his, you would pause to parley with the venerable gentle-
man, and to pledge a prosperous voyage ere you pushed off!”

“Mention it not, my good Sir Richard: I am not ready to
pay my respects to the charcoal majesty of the trans.styx
dominions. I am so much in his debt, I lave not the hardi-
hood to look him in the face. Eyad! if my accounts were
looked over, there would be found, as in the case of Don
28 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Juan, I fear, ‘a deuced balance with the d—-l.’ As ‘ deer-
stealing ’ Will has it, ‘ cowards die many times befure their
death.” Why make ourselves miserable in fearing misery ;
rather, Sir Richard, adopt with me, the motto, Dum vivimus
vivamus,’ as old Dr. Thrashemwell hath it, or as Cow 7

“ But, ‘revenons & nos moutons,’” interposed Sir Richard ;

 

“your news, my dear Dighton, your news ?”

“Ah.” answered Dighton, sinking his voice to a lower key,
“that villain, Phillips, has returned from abroad, and is now
in England !”

“ Jack Phillips returned! pshaw! what of that ?” peevish-
ly replied Sir R.

“What of it? Think you I would post a hundred miles
at the peril of my own and my horse’s neck for nothing?
Suppose he confesses his share in matters which we need not
particularize ?”

“ Well, suppose he does,” added Sir R. coolly, “ what can
he prove? The will is destroyed, the heirs are dead, and
have you not hold enough on him to insure his silence, were
it even not so ?”

“True! Sir Richard; one would think you were a lawyer
instead of myself, you argue so calmly and logically ; but let
me replenish your glass, and state the second count in my
bill. You must know that I have seen Phillips, and he seems
to repent his share in our concerns since the emigration of
his parents to America, and, with the aid of the wine cup, I
learned that the will was not destroyed !”

“ Ay! what! not destroyed! Why kept you not hold of
the villain ?”

“Patience, Sir Richard; the will he placed in a secret
drawer of a small cabinet which belonged to the late Edward
Staughton, which, when his crimes hurried him precipitately
from England, shortly after the death of your honoured uncle,
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 29

fell into the possession of his mother, and being valued by her
as a memento of Mr. Edward Staughton and his family, she
is supposed to have taken it with her to America, and if liv-
ing, most probably still retains it.”

“Not unlikely ; she was my brother’s family nurse, and
deeply attached to them. Dighton! some measures must be
taken for the recovery of the cabinet.”

“You speak like yourself again, Sir Richard. -Measures:
must be adopted. Phillips seems to have discovered the resi-
dence of his family, and is about visiting them, though we can
hardly trust him.”

Sir Richard mused for a few moments, and added, “ You
should have taken care of that fellow, my dear Dighton. As
for. the will, I don’t see how it can affect us if it should be
produced, which would not.be. likely if that rascal were dis-
posed of.”

“As for Jack,” returned the other, “I saw not how to
manage him; he has slipped into the service of a youth from
New-York——with whom I am acquainted, by the way—and
who, it appears, served either him or his father while in In-
dia, somie years ago; and touching the will, it is of the utmost
importance that it -be secured, for it is reported that ae
Staughton is still living a

“Good G—d !” ejaculated Sir R. fe Haney Staiwlton Te
ing! No, no! it can’t be ”—-looking anxiously at the former
—‘it can’t be !—it must not be !” as his eye assumed an ex-
pression of stern and desperate resolve.

“Living! and in England! such is the report; but calm
your fears, Sir Richard; I myself am utterly incredulous.
Indeed, I think it’ absurd. It was. caused, I believe, by a
fancied resemblance, traced by some of our old women, be-
tween your nephew and a stranger who recently passed
through the village on his ‘route to the metropolis. “I won-

3*

 
30 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROOK.

der you heard not of it; but you are so cooped up in your
castle you would hardly hear of the fact if the earth was
burnt up.”

“Something must be done. Phillips must not go, or not
goalone. What do you propose?” asked Staughton. “ I pre-
sume you have not come so hastily merely to alarm me ?”

“TI propose,” answered Dighton, with the air of a man
whose mind was made up—‘I propose joining Jack, crossing
the Atlantic, finding the elder Phillips, and returning as
quickly as may be, with the desired cabinet, or at least to
provide for Jack; my acquaintance with Mr. Morton, his pre-
sent master, may facilitate my ends.”

“Morton,” said Sir Richard ; * ah! you remind me of a firm
in New-York who were once connected with my uncle in his
commercial transactions in India; Vl provide you letters to
them.”

“The same, my dear sir,” replied Dighton; “ my compag-
non de voyage is a son of the principal of the very house.”

“ Well, that’s fortunate,” said Staughton; “I wish you a
speedy and successful tour. When do you go ?”

“In the morning I must for the seaport, or I shall be too
late. Mingle more with the villagers, my dear sir, and ac-
count plausibly for my absence. Au revoir.”

CHAPTER VI.

Tue majesty of night reigned supreme; her rayless sceptre
held undivided sway ; no spark or glimmer in all the stellar
empire opposed her rule. It was the night following the one
in which our story commenced—the same on whivh we left
TALLULAH 5 OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 31

Charles Rattleton and his friends for the trans-atlantic digres-
sion in our last chapter. Some travellers had that day ar-
rived at the little hostel, at the base of the Currahee, the
famed mountain towards whivh Charles and his party were
then journeying.

“Shade of Erebus!” exclaimed the elder of the travellers,
as they languidly threw aside the dice, after an hour’s toil at
back-gammon, and stood at the door of the inn—* Faith ! it’s
a night h—ll itself might be proud of, as far as colour goes.
I trust no poor strollers have the misfortune to be on the
road at this time.”

““ Why 2” replied his companion; “ you must remember we
have no Paul Cliffords and Jack Straws here, to enliven the
tedium of travelling, with a gay minuet on the road-side, and
benevolently to relieve the passing coach of its burthen, in
order that it may travel the easier. You are not now among
the mountain passes of Italy, or even the high-roads of Eng-
land.”

“You are right, my dear Morton,” replied his friend; “ you
speak but too truly. Tam sick of this insipid travelling ; as
you say, there is nothing to fear in this slip-slop country but
your horses and roads ; no adventure but a tug with an ob-
stinate steed ; nothing to fear but a rut in the path, an over-
grown brook, or a rickety bridge: contests, inglorious enough !
I like something more stirring and varied. It is now six
weeks since we landed in New-York, and not an adventure
have we met with. Apropos of adventure.

“Tt was just such a night as this, several years ago, while
rambling in Italy, I came up with a party of banditti, at the
moment they were sacking the coach of some Ameiican tra-
vellers. The light of the robbers’ torches enabled us to see
without being ourselves observed. The gentlemen of the
party struggled manfully, but vainly, against superior num-
32. TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ‘ROCK.

bers. A gallant fellow, apparently the captain of the band,
struck with the beauty of the youngest of the ladies, insisted:
upon the honour of her hand, in a dance upon the rich lawn
that stretched from.the road side, while some of the bandits
whistled or hummed a favourite air, and others quietly occu-
pied themselves in disposing of their booty. Coming up at
this instant, the coup d’a@il was so singularly beautiful and
novel, that my companions and myself forgot the necessity of
affurding assistance, and stood silently enjoying the scene.
Even the prisoners seemed to forget, for the time, their un-
pleasant situation, and raising themselves, as well as their
bonds would allow, united in.the whistle of the orchestra,
and begged to be set at liberty, that they might join the
sport, pledging their parole d’honneur to submit again at the
conclusion! At this moment the lady seized the opportuni-
ty of a favourable figure in the dance—plucked two pistols
from the belt of the bandit, and levelling one at his-heart,
brought him to her feet; with the second, she wounded’
another, and with electric haste, plucking a knife from the
grasp of the fallen robber, she sundered the bands that cons
fined her brother and friends! The sudden confusion brought
us to.our senses,‘and instantly raising a shout, we joined in
the mélée ; and came, indeed, most opportunely to. the rescue,.
for another party of banditti, lying in reserve, had come up,
and they were again in the ascendant. The heroic girl, who:
produced the strife, was in the arms of a ruffian, his stiletto
gleamed in the air, as her colour faded and her spirits sank ;
with a horrid imprecation the steel was descending, when
rushing in, with one hand I. dashed up the villain’s arm, and.
with the other lent him the friendly aid of what little lead my
pistol contained, to further his. progress to a land and people
more befitting his respectable fellowship; at the same time
catching the fainting girlin my arms. By this time the des-
TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 33

peradoes were completely routed, but at their urgent request
I accompanied the party to the neighbouring village, where
days quickly fled in their pleasant society. Egad! she was
a noble creature ; that adventure and the pretty heroine, have
frequently crossed my mind, and her brother, a gay and spirit-
ed youth, as one could desire, although an American. He
was a native of the South, however, and they say the South-
rons have warm hearts, daring and generous. Parbleu/ While
I bethink me, he was a native of this very State! Here’s
a prospect of pleasure! I’d risk much to see the girl again !”

“Their names! their names, Dighton!” exclaimed Henry,
who had listened with deep attention.

“Their names !—oh the d—I, yes! let me see—names |
forgotten! d nit! forgotten !” answered Dighton. “ Yet
stop! I think Ihave them in my pocket-book—but what's
the matter, man? Has my story offended you? D?’ ye think
I did not conduct the romance in orthodox style, in not leav-
ing them abruptly, after the rescue, like some supernatural
aid ; ‘disappearing in the confusion of the scene,’ as the
newspapers have it; or do you think the lady should have
resigned her heart instanter; and I, in return, should have
offered her the name and fortune of Mr. Alfred Dighton |
Ah! ah! cheer up, Harry, all may be right yet. If I meet
my little heroine again, faith! I have halfa mind to humour
your taste, and end that exploit in true lover's style. She
was a proud little witch, and would have worn a coronet or
crown with grace and dignity; and if I do not flatter myself,
she regarded me not without favour. The prospect bright-
ens; nothing pleases me more than some little adventurous
gallantries ; though as fur marriage—bah! I leave that to
romantic youths like you, Morton. I hope something will
turn up to break the sameness of our route; here you have
rambled a thousand miles in search of a lady-love, who gave

 
84 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

you a few pleasant smiles, a year ago, and I am on the qui
vive to catch a glimpse of another, who thanked me once for
saving her life, and whose name even | have furgotten | Eyad!
get thee to thy closet, Morton, and pray our patron saint, Don
Quixote, to lend us his gracious aid, in these ‘ wind-mill’
matters.”

“T think,” said Henry, “such an appeal would not be out
of keeping yet I feel but little disposition to jest to-night. I
wish you had not forgotten the name of your heroine; are
you sure they were residents of Georgia ? The story reminds
me of a similar one which some friends—the very friends I
most wish to see—once briefly related to me. Mr. Rattleton
and his sister were a

“ Apollo and the muses!” cried Dighton; “ Charles and
Laura Rattleton ?”

“Yes! How know you them 2”

“ Know them, my dear sir? The very same! My hero-
ine of Italy !”

“Ts she? Is she, indeed!” replied Morton; ‘ now I recol-
lect she mentioned your name as her deliverer.”

“Ah! then she has not furgott2n me.”

“Tis uot likely, sir, her generous heart would forget any
one who had thus served her.”

“Ah! my dear Morton, lies the wind in that quarter? Is
my little heroine indeed your lady-love, and art jealous ?
Faith! if my memory serves me,I applaud your judgment
and your choice. ‘Oh! drive that shadow from thy brow,’
as the song says ; I'll not contend with you, Morton. No, no;
I shall be happy to farther your views. I resign you the
field, my Pythias.”

“T am greatly indebted to you, sir, but I ask no sacrifice,”
replied Henry, offended at the light manner in which Digh-
ton spoke of Miss Rattleton, and jealous of his claims upon

 
TALLULAH$ OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 35

her regard. “If we should meet the lady again, she can be-
stow her smiles where she pleases, and none need resign what
they do not possess.”

“Now, upon my word, Morton, this is too bad; you misun-
derstand me:

‘ Alas ! how light a cause can move
Dissension between hearts that love |’
Come, come, your pardon, Henry !”

“Granted, though unneeded. You have said naught to
offend me; yet [ confess my spirits to-night accord not well
with your careless mirth. With your leave I’ll leave this cell
for a stroll over the lawn yonder.”

“Go, my dear fellow,” replied Dighton ; “but pray leave
your arms beliind you. 1 fear to trust you alone, in your
atrabilarious mood, on such a sombre night as this. But
stop !” he added, as Henry was leaving the house—“ do pray
see the old crone that our landlord tells us dwells on the
crown of the mountain, and ask her to read the stars for you;
never mind if none are visible, she can put on her spectacles,
stir up her spice bow], and ’twill.answer every purpose !”

“ Faith !” soliloquized Dighton, as his eye rested on the
dark outline of the mountain, while his hand was on the door-
latch, “that is a noble sight! It carries me back to the hills
and dales of my own country. I seem again to be entering
the land of romance. This night has suggested matter which
may prove fruitful in adventure. That Morton! I can’t rid
myself of the idea that his fate is associated in some manner
with my own. Were astrology in vogue, I would wager that
at the natal hour our stars had crossed each other's path. ’Tis
strange! I think I have seen his face before ; how, when, or
where, is a mystery. Surely he was not one of the party in
Italy? No, I should remember him if that were the case ;
36 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

and this Laura; I resigned him the field—bah ! no one shall
cross Alfred Dighton’s path with impunity !”

CHAPTER VII.

Leavine the court-yard, Morton entered upon a lawn ex-
tending in an undulating sweep from the inn to the foot of
the mountain. As he walked, he mused upon the chequered
current of his life; of his meeting with Laura Rattleton at
Saratoga, a meeting of which we have before spoken. Though
he had since heard nothing of her, she had ever been the
bright image about which his fancies would cling, assuming
countless beautiful and happy forms; yet quickly mingling
with their kindred air, as he remembered that perhaps he
should never meet her again; perhaps she had forgotten him;
or was even then the bride of another. He rarely suffered
the last thought to intrude itself. It was too painful an idea.
He ventured not to muse upon the consequences that would
fullow the events he feared, but fondly cherished hope, feeble
and treacherous as he knew her to be, in his bosom.

Since his acquaintance with Laura, the business of his firm
had called him to England. Here he first met Alfred Digh-
ton, a man whose varied talents and knowledge of the world
had won his companionship, yet had failed to gain his love or
esteem. To the confiding heart of Morton, there appeared in
Dighton’s character an indefinite tincture of craftiness, and
lack of upright principle, that precluded anything like attach-
ment; yet in the short period of their acquaintance, he had
gained an influence over the mind of Morton, which would
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 37

have cost him no little effort to shake off. There was a
something about the man which he did not like, and the con-
fidence apparently existing between his own servant, Jack
Phillips, and his friend, disturbed him, although he could not
even conjecture any possible cause.

As he thus mused, the sounds of a voice, as if singing,
caught his ear; yet dying away, he fancied them coming
from the inn, and echoed by the mountain, and continued his
stroll, until he entered a broken, and apparently long-aban-
doned carriage path, traversing, in the form of a parapet, the
eastern ledge of the mountain. He had passed but little of
this wild path, when a scream of distress broke startlingly
upon his ear. Reminiscences of his late conversation with
Dighton flashed through his mind, and with the speed of the
mountain roe, he flew down the jungle to the point from
whence the cries issued. In the darkness of the night, ha
could barely distinguish a female form, half fallen from a
horse. With a desperate bound he seized the bridle of the
affrighted animal; reined him back from the precipice over
which he hung, and throwing an arm around the lifeless form
of the rider, bore her off hurriedly to the inn. To Phillips,
who had that instant arrived, alarmed by the cries which had
reached the house, he threw the bridle of the steed, and
passing Dighton, who now appeared on the ground, lent a
deaf ear to his questions, and bade him hurry on, as others
of the party seemed to be behind.

Arriving at the inn, he was too much engaged in applying
restoratives to his charge, and too deeply excited to notice
particularly her features. When, however, his alarm was
somewhat stilled by returning animation to her counteuance,
he gazed a moment intensely in her face, struck with the ex-
ceeding beauty of his lovely burden; when, with a convulsive

4
38 TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

start, be cried “It is!—am I dreaming! Good heavens! it
is her! my Laura!”

The gaze and passionate ejaculations of Morton, materially
assisted in restoring Laura to consciousness.

‘Henry ; my dear Henry! is it, Mr. Morton, is it you?
Where am 1?” she continued, embarrassed and blushing at
finding herself in his arms. ‘‘ What means this ?”

Henry himself seemed to feel the awkwardness of his situ-
ation, as he instantly placed her in a chair, yet still support-
ing her.

“___ Hold him !” cried Laura with a shudder, as the late
frightful scene again flashed through her brain.

“Be calm, my dear Miss Rattleton,” interposed Morton.
“You are safe——quite safe.”

“Thank heaven !” replied Laura devoutly. ‘“ And to your
opportune arrival, Iam indebted for my resene# Mr. Mor-
tun,” she added, tremblingly, “it is unnecessary to thank
you; you have saved my life : a service that demands no ver-
Lose acknowledgments; yet how you happened here at this
moment I cannot divine.”

“The whim of a traveller, or perhaps the guidance of Pro-
vidence,” he replied. ‘* But the tale is too long for you now.
What of your fellow travellers ?”

“Yes! yes!” cried Laura, “I must be still dreaming. Oh
Charles! Lucy! Go! Mr. -”

“ Hush thy cries, my queen'y sister,” cried the gay voice
of Charles Rattleton, entering at that moment, and affection-
ately embracing her. “It was an ugly affair; but God be
praised, you are safe—all, safe and sound,” he continued, as
her anxious and inquiring glance met his eye. And your
gallant deliverer, where is he?” he asked, as Morton offered
his hand. “Ah! Morton! Henry Morton! is it you? Now,

 
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 39

by all that’s strange, what fairy cave is this we are in! And
Mr. Dighton, too!” he exclaimed, as that gentleman advanced
to greet him; “Dighton! my gallant bandit hero! ‘Angels
and ministers of grace defend us.’ Alston! look out and see
if the mountain is safe! But Mr. Alston, also, at that mo-
ment extending the hand of old acquaintance to Dighton, his
surprise was complete, and he sank exhausted upon a chair,
It is needless to depict the surprise of all, and the glad greet.
ings and explanations that were exchanged. All save Lucy
seemed happy; she alone was a stranger to all, and in the
general astonishment, was overlooked by all, except Mr. Al-
ston, who presented her to the new members of the corps.
Charles was in his gayest humour.

“ Egad !” he cried, “‘All’s well that ends well.’ I would
encounter a worse adventure every night, for such a dénoue-
ment. It would delight the heart of Sir Walter himself
Were he here, he would soon concoct fur us the ‘ Legend of
the Curtahee. ”

The evening passed gaily on—even Lucy appeared delight-
ed, seated between Mr. Alston and Mr. Moreton, with Laura
in the immediate vicinity. Laura never looked more beauti-
ful, and Dighton never displayed to better effect his singular
and brilliant powers of pleasing. But the time fled.

“¢ All that’s bright must fade,’ and this merry night must
close,” said Ckarles, rising to seek his couch. “ Ladies fair,
and gentles all, I give you good night.”

All soon left the room but Dighton. Standing again, with
his hand upon the door latch-—*’Tis strange.” he mused,
“but afew hours ago, at this very spot, I was wishing for ad-
venture; and now I have it, and of the very nature T would
have selected. D n my luck! Why was I not first at
her saddle bow? She is beautiful! Let me see: the will !
T'll soon have it: then that old boar, Sir Richard, out of the

 
40 TALLULAH 3 OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

way, she'll act ‘my lady’ well at ‘Conway Hall.” No, no,
Morton: play with some other than Alfred Dighton !”

CHAPTER VIII.

“ Couracez! one bold step, and the feat is accomplished,—-
the ledge is firm,—fear not,—now !”

With a gossamer bound, and grasping the extended hand
of her cavalier servante, Lucy Staughton sprang over-the in-
tervening chasm, and stood by Alston’s side, on a wild pro-
jection of Currahee, but a little below the summit of the
mountain.

“ Bravely done!” cried he. “ Anne of Geierstein, on the
mist-enveloped peaks of her own wild Switzerland, might
proudly call thee ‘ cousin.’”

“Tt was but a step,” said Lucy. “ Your eulogium betrays
the flatterer. Have you forgotten my foolish terror at last
night’s alarm ?”—pointing, smilingly, to the rough parapet
which they had traversed, at so much cost, the previous day,
and which now dwindled to a mere path, as seen a thousand
feet below them.

“T was too much alarmed myself,” replied Alston, his eye
turning to his lovely companion—‘ to forget it so quickly.
Yet you must not ascribe your alarm to want of courage ; it
was but the effect of sudden and startling surprise, upon an
already excited mind. Your cool, prompt, and deliberate
feat, of the past moment, bespeaks you possessed of the tried
metal of heroism. Besides, was it not your ery that brought
such opportune aid to Miss Rattleton, and thus saved the life
of your friend 2”
TALLULAH 3 OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 41

The gentle girl shuddered at the thought of Laura’s narrow
escape. “TI care not, though all the world—though you, Mr.
Alston, think my fears weak and silly, if they have proved of
service to any one, but most of all to my own Laura. Oh!
if I should lose her, my last joy would have fled. Oh, then
indeed! ‘the worm, the canker, and the grief, would alone
be mine,”—and as thoughts, bitter thoughts of the past rush-
ed in, they forced asunder the flood gates of feeling, and Lucy
sobbed aloud. “Alston stood in silent sympathy. In his own
heart were kindred springs, that taught him well the intensi-
ty of griefs, that could wrest such a display from the bosom
of the self-governed a:.d strong-minded Luey. He knew the
stern and hervic control she must have exercised in so long
and so unremittingly restraining their force. He had won-
dered much that such stoicism of mind could dwell with such
passionate fervency of soul; and that either could inhabit a
form so fragile, that it might ery the mercy of the north
wind’s blast with the trembling reed. Sternly resolute as was
his own mind, and calm as he always appeared in outward
demeanour, he had from bitter experience learned that there
are moments when the heart spurns control, and must either
find relief in expression, or break. He knew that courtly con-
solation was but a mockery at such moments ; he ventured no
soothing word, but when the current of her sorrow grew
calmer, he gently raised her head, and with a mute eloquence
of look and gesture, pointed to the lovely scene around them
—to the varied sky, with its myriad charms—to the spark-
ling earth, with its countless beauties.

Lucy felt the force of the appeal; to her, it was the “still
small voice” that never spoke unheeded. She hastily wiped
the tears from her eyes, and with much of her wonted calm-
ness replied, “I offer no apology, Mr. Alston, for my emotion.
Why it was, I know not; but a moment since, memory seem

4*
42 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

ed to reveal, in one glaring, overpowering mass, every remin-
iscence of my past life: the cup was too bitter; if you knew
how many causes I have for sorrow, you would pardon me.
Oh ! the ‘dark valley of the shadow of death,’ sometimes ap-
pears to me a paradise, compared with this cold, delusive and
joyless world. I have lived to see my friends fall and die
around me; I have seen bubbles of happiness beautifully rise,
and—burst ; I have witnessed, felt—hope after hope decay,
until now, hope and fear, too, are dead !”

“T respect your grief, my dear Miss Staughton,” answered
her companion ; “through the communications of your friends,
Tam not utterly ignorant of your history, and I know how
hard a task it is, to

‘Tinge the cheek with a warm sunny smile,
While the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.’
But try, nerve your heart to one more struggle: you will yet
be happy. We must not murmur at God's providence, even
though it prove a noisome pill. You have still ardent, devo-
ted friends; you have much to enjoy—shake off these sad
forebodings :
‘Can the noble mind forever brood,
The willing victim of a fitful mood ?

Oh! ‘look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back
again,’ but gaze abroad on the fair face of nature ; all things
die, certainly, and our friends and ourselves die too, but it is
an inscrutable law of nature ; nothing is stable ; we must not
expect it; it is folly, rank folly to do so. Cast your eye on
the matchless loveliness of the scene before you. Look at
this noble pile, with its verdant garb of mountain trees—
watch the grace of the undulating motion that, like the
ocean’s waves, sweeps o’er the extended forest below—scan
the antic gambols of those swiftly passing and prism-hued
clouds, See in every thing, the hand of an all-controlling, all-
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 43

protecting power, plain and palpable as the finger upon the
wall in the ancient palace of Babylon. Is there not sufficient
to rebuke futile repining and ungrateful murmuring ?”

Alston’s eloquent appeal won ready sympathy from Lucy ;
it operated like a charm ; the sweet smile again played upon
her lips, as she said, “they call me a silly, enthusiastic admi-
rer of nature, but I must resign the palm to you, Mr. Alston.
You speak, though, with no more ardour than truth. I can,
I do enjoy her sweet attractions; to me

 

 

 

‘ She speaks

A various language, for my gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness and a smile
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides
Into my darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness, ere I am aware.’

My chief pleasure arises from the contemplation of nature,
in some form or other, and in every thing there is some-
thing to admire; but on a morning like this, and in such a
fairy scene, I wonder that I could have been unhappy for a
moment. I feel,” continued Lucy, as her heart warmed and
her cheek glowed with the interest of her theme, “I feel at
this sunny moment, that mere life is a luxury. I can sing
with the bard—

‘Blest power of sunshine, genial day,

What balm, what life is in thy ray ;

To feel thee is such real bliss,

That had the world no joy but this,

To sit in sunshine, calm and sweet—

It were a world too exquisite,

For man to leave it for the gloom,
The dark, cold shadow of the tomb.’”

“T fear,” said Alston smiling, “ I must restore you the palm
you so flatteringly yielded me but now; yet this brilliant
44 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

panorama deserves all your admiration. This delicious moun-
tain air makes one feel like a certain pretty writer, who, when
alluding to the saying of the king of Macedon, ‘that were he
not Alexander, he would wish to be Diogenes ! so (says the
writer) ‘I, when feasting upon this aerial beverage, which is
like swallowing so much vitality, am tempted to ejaculate,
were I not a man, I would wish to be a chameleon!”

“A happy thought,” laughed Lucy; “and surely if that
same old cynic, Diogenes, were here, he would think so too,
and leave his tub to growl a note of assent to the sentiment !”

“Tf he did not,” said Alston, “it would be vain to put him
in Eden, for he would still be Diogenes, even there. But
here comes Miss Laura and her train, seeking us, I suppose,
to make the promised visit to the witch’s hut.”

“The witch’s hut,’” cried Laura, arriving at that instant,
and repeating Alstou’s last words. “ How can you be so bar-
barous, Mr. Alston! Ithought you had more poetry about
you: come, gentlemen, mend his rhetoric!”

“Perhaps Miss Rattleton would prefer the ‘Sibyl’s Cave,’ ”
said Morton.

“Or the ‘Fairy’s Grotto,’ or ‘ Ariel’s Bower,” added
Dighton.

“ Admirable, gentlemen !” answered Laura; “ and you, Mr.
Dighton, by way of reward, sball have your fate read last—a
species of valedictory-taking honour, you know. But what
were you and Mr. Alston talking about, my dear Lucy, that
you were laughing so merrily when we came up? I feared
that when two such grave personages fell together, you would
concoct a declaration of eternal war, with such frivolous things
as smiles and mirth, if not actually weep yourselves, like poor
Niobe of old, into grim marble !”

At this moment, doubling a projecting rock, the party
reached the rude, half-hidden entrance of a little hut, formed
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 45

partly of the mountain rock, and perfected by means of a few
rough logs and branches. This retreat had been long occu-
pied by an eccentric old woman, who made some pretensions
to the cabalistic art; and though the credulity of her visitors
afforded her little support, the humour and amusement that
the call promised brought not a few to her shrine. This
morning had been selected by our party for a visit to the
oracle. Charles was nut among them, having, either from
real or feigned indisposition, begged permission to remain
behind.

They were standing at the portal, hesitating to enter, when
they were startled by a voice from within, inviting them, in
verse, to approach—

“ Timid mortals! why dost wait ?
Enter now and learn your fate ;
Under this magic roof dwell I,
Sycorax, of the searching eye!
The hidden book ’tis mine to scan,
And trace the destinies of man.
Mortals! now no longer wait,
Boldly come and read your fate !”

“ Heyday !” cried Dighton, “what means this? Are we
on enchanted ground, or are we again in the chivalric days of
palmer, minstrel, and troubadour? Truly, this promises
something! let us in and view this improvisatrice.”

“Some good-natured rhymer, I suppose,” said Alston, as
they were entering the cave, “has furnished the old sybil
with appropriate verses for her incantations.”

By this time they were crowded in the narrow limits of
the hut. It was a dreary, smoke-blackened apartment, but
dimly lighted and guiltless of furniture, save a large rock
rising in the centre, which served the double purpose of a ta-
ble, and to partition the sanctum of the crone from the visitor’s
division, It had also a few lesser rocks, which answered, in
46 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

lieu of better, as seats. At the moment the group made their
debit, there stood in the “inner temple,’—in the “ holy of
holies,”"—a woman, somewhat advanced in years, dressed in
coarse tattered garments, her head ornamented with a black
turban, fantastically folded. and in such a manner as nearly
to hide her features from the view of the visitors. She was
leaning upon the rock, apparently unconscious of their pre-
sence. Suff-ring an interval to elapse, they found, it was ex-
pected, they should propose their business, and Dighton step-
ping forward, thus addressed her: “ Fair dame! empress of
the magic wand, and gifted expositor of the unknown serull
of human destiny, we humbly come, curious mortals, to learn
from thine immaculate wisdom, the current of our future fate !
Open thou those coral portals of prescience and speak, my
Delphos!” he continued, gracefully approaching a silver coin
to her hand.

The sibyl seemed for an instant to unite in the smile and
titter that stole through the group at Dighton’s magniloquent
address, but assuming again a stern expression, she waved the
speaker to his seat, aud glancing at Lucy, spubke—

“Cease thy bold voice, poor son of earth ;
This shrine’s too sacred for thy mirth:

If thou thy destiny would learn,

At present to thy seat return ;

Await thy time,—for first I'd view

Her, of the eye, so mild and blue!”

This second sally of the dame excited the curiosity even of
Alston, and in the whole scene there was something so sin-
gular, that the general mirth bad given place to deep and
silent curiosity ; so much so, that Lucy really trembled as Al-
ston led her forward to the altar ; and her colour fled, as her
delicate fingers rested in the muscular grasp of the crone.

With the coin that le placed in her hand, she made sun-
TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. Al
dry mystic evolutions, and glancing at the delicately blue
veins, with a solemn air, spoke, or rather chauuted, in an un-
earthly tone—

“ Daughter of a foreign land,

Tempest-tossed upon our strand ;

Dreary and sad thy fate has been,

Many a sorrow hast thou seen ;

The one, thy young heart fondly lov’d,

From thy affection long has roved ;

Yet, gentle one, cease to repine,

Peace and joy shall yet be thine;

Thy cur:ent’s course now ting'd- with wo,

Shall yet be chang’d in gladsome flow !”

Waving her hand, Lucy returned mechanically to her seat,
pallid with surprise, fear, and a hundred thoughts at the
strange manner and wonderful knowledge of the woman. So
intense was the universal interest, that as she again spoke,—

“ Now, at the shrine I fain would see,
The queen of the black and sparkling e’e

9

Laura, supported by Dighton, moved silently forward, as un-
der the influence of a spell.
Receiving the silver, and gesticulating as before, she con-

tinued—

“ Maiden of our sunny land,

In the clear veins of thy hand,

I see a stream, like crystal flow,

That speaks a life unting’d by wo;

With danger twice, thou’st been in strife,

Yet gallant arms have saved thy life;

Yet when they warded off the blow—

Fair maiden! thou. hast yet to know,

That though grim death then lost his mark,

A subtler weapon reach'd thy heart :

For the kind glance of that bright eye,

‘Pal’mon and Arcite’ yet shall sigh ; -

But he who'll, happy, gain the prize,

Shall own his birth ‘neath Britain’s skies.”
48 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

As she ceased, Laura rested heavily and with a visible tre-
mour upon her companion’s arm. Dighton’s countenance
changed from his look of astonishment to a bright expression
of gratification, and as the old dame motioned him away, be
bowed low, with an involuntary reverence, and silently with-
drew.

Beckoning to Alston, who moved up, she resumed her
chaunt—

«‘From Albion’s land, thou com’st, I trow,
With fair green laurels on thy brow ;

Thy proud mien shows a manly heart;
Yet ’neath it lies love’s rankling dart :
It’s been thy lot, in thy short day,
Through many chequer’d scenes to stray ;
Yet, courage, sir! if Fate speaks true,

A bright boon yet awaiteth you !”

She paused. While the same breathless interest prevailed
—increasing, even, if possible—Alston, obeying the motion of
the wand, retired, and Henry Morton stood at the rocky
shrine. Her words to him were brief; but uttered in a tone
of greater mystery—

“ Trac’d upon this palm I see
Strange mysteries yet awaiting thee;

Their nature, sir, forbear to seek,
Brief time shall soon more plainly speak.”

Henry retired, as Dighton, half anxious and half fearful,
confronted the strange being. She gazed sternly and appal-
lingly upon him. He trembled as if fearful of the nature and
extent of her revelations. She spoke—

“ Man! thou playst a dangerous part!
I see deceit within thy heart ;

Mend thy course, or if Fate speaks true,
The d——1 soon shall have his due !”

Dighton started, and stood for an instant as though petri-
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 49

fied! Allthe party involuntarily rose, when the sibyl, eleva-
ting her voice, and tossing her arms wildly around, shrieked,—
“No longer stay |
Away! Away |”

“What means this infernal farce ?” cried Dighton, seizing
hold of her robe, as she was hurrying from the scene. In his
grasp, the dress and turban gave way—a mask fell from the
face—and before the astonished group stood, convulsed with
laughter, the figure of—

CuarLes Rarreton !

CHAPTER IX.

Tue brief interval of silent astonishment produced by the
unexpected apparition of Charles, was fullowed by a burst of
merriment, not unworthy of Jove’s laughter-loving court, on the
mirth-echoing heights of Olympus. His appearance needs lit-
tle explanation. His happy humour had suggested the little
divertisement, while the party on the previous night were
planning a visit to the mountain and hut as the morrow’s
pastime. Ever ready for any exploit that promised amuse-
ment, his fertile fancy quickly revolved the design, which an
equally ready talent enabled him so happily to execute. As
the occupant of the hut was absent at the time from the vi-
cinity, he had no difficulty in the accomplishment of his
freak. Feigning illness, and prevailing upon his friends to
leave him behiud—the most difficult part of the task—no
sooner had they gone, than following the landlord over an-
other course, he reached the hut, installed himself in his new
character, and found time

«His spells and vessels to provide,
His charms and every thing beside,”
50 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

long before the tardy progress of the others had accomplish-
ed the walk. We have seen bow successfully he acquitted
himself. But he had effected more than he intended, or was
even then aware of, so strangely had some portions of his pre-
dictions tallied with truth. He did not anticipate so serious
a reception of his joke. Dighton still regarded him with a
half offended and suspicious air, as Charles exclaimed—

“ What, Dighton! displeased? knowing your love of such
pranks, I thought to have gratified you more than any. You
did not like my very flattering predictions? Come, come,
mere badinage, my dear sir; I did it but to give effect to
the scene—a little meat-axe rhetoric, I thought, would sprin-
kle it with that precious spicy seasoning, yclept variety, and
give an orthodox—flash—crash—thunder-and-lightning finish
to it; and then your irreverent address to so august a tribu-
nal! I own I cherished a little malice prepense, but you have
seen too much of the world to take umbrage at such innocent
spite. Votre pardon, mon ami 2”

“ Willingly granted,” returned Dighton, evidently feeling
the necessity of appearing gay and unconcerned. “ I acknow-
edge tbat your great partiality a little disconcerted me. I
am jealous of any impeachment of my reputation even in
jest. I was a fool, though, to feel so,” he continued, regain-
ing his usual hilarity, and relishing the joke in spite of him-
self, “’pon my soul you managed it well; one would have
supposed you had been a connoisseur in ‘ poisoned entrails,’
and all the nondescript contents of witches’ cauldrous, all
your life!”

“A veritable Meg Merriles,” added Laura; “ but what
says the lovely Sycorax of her own destiny? Come, brother ;
a few more lines 4 la broomstick.”

“ Nay, sister; don’t you know that the physician relishes
not his own nostrums, or the cook, even, his savoury dishes ;
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 51.

it is so through life, from the kitchen up. Yet to gratify
you,

Til e’en endeavour to rehearse

My destiny in gentle verse ;

Turning the page of Fate, I view,

A silken thread of golden hue—

The ‘thread of life ’—a long, clear line
Untangled on the spool of Time.

“Ah! ah!” said Laura, as Charles paused, “spur on your
Pegasus, brother, and read the rest. That spool of untangled
thread I suppose is the emblem of your -past happy life, and
you are alarmed at some unlooked for knot: a love-knot, no
doubt. You are to be caught at last; nothing but that
would daunt you, I know. Confess that the prospect is ob-
scure.”

“ Very,” rejoined Charles, peering anxiously into his hand.
“T may say very obscure, I can scarcely make out the rest,
but I see something about, happy dog .. . thread twirling
off the spool... fair hearts breaking . .. passing un-
seathed . .. never told their loves... sighing in vain...
Ah! the last two lines are plain enough; perhaps they may
furnish some clue. Listen,

Did all fair hearts, one huge heart make,
Tn sighs for thee, ’twould vainly break!”

All admired Charles’s ingenious concatenation of ideas, yet
expressed some misgivings as to the truth of his reading,
He was proceeding to show how utterly impossible it would
be for any unlucky love-knot to turn up in his destiny, as the
party arrived at a little spring, near which, to their agreeable
surprise, a light banquet was spread, in compliance with in-
structions, which Dighton’s forethought had suggested.—
Charles was in high glee at the success of his plot, and though
it left a deep impression upon each, all, for the present, min-
52 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

gled in the festivity. The inn had afforded but a humble
repast, yet the circumstances made it welcome ; we must not
pause to relate all the pretty compliments that circled around :
the courtly and sparkling speeches of Dighton; the mild and
eloquent remarks of Alston; the expressions of pleasure and
gratitude on the part of Lucy ; or even the humorous drafts
which Charles made upon his muse, to enliven the hour. All
seemed merry except Morton, and he, perhaps, was still mu-
sing upon the scene at the cave.

It was nearly night ere they were again en route home-
ward, “Mr. Morton,” said Laura, rallying him upon his
moody depression of spirits, as they found themselves alones
“You do injustice to our merry company, and the sweet
smiles of dame Nature, by yoursad humour. Look ! Look!”
she continued, as the picturesque form of a bunter, springing
upon a rock below then, and sending the echoes of his bugle
far and near, added a new and beautiful feature to the laud-
scape. “Pray, what dire mischief are you plotting, or what
heinous sins are gnawing your conscience, that you look so
wo-begone at such a time as this? I fear I must summons
the rattling spirits of the gay Mr. Dighton to aid me in amu-
siug you.”

“T crave pardon, Miss Rattleton. If I seem sad, my looks
belie my heart. J assure you I appreciate the charms around
me; perhaps the more, that I say the less; and the society
is that I would have selected froin all the world. Iam asad
castle-builder, and moments like this, with kind friends near,
to whom we may look with confidence for sympathy, conjure
up a thousand scenes of felicity, Utopian Edens, whose very
transparency betrays their emptiness, and produces a chillness
of feeling, when contrasted with the earthly, alloyed enjoy-
ments, that all our past experience, and the history of all
mankind, tell us, we must alone expect. You must not
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 53

though, take me for a dull dreamer; my temperament is
naturally happy and buoyant, disposed to look upon life as a
sweet parterre, and to extract the honey alone from its flow-
ers. I imagine that, under certain circumstances, no one
would enjoy life more than I. Yet my fate has been a
changeful one; my early history and my birth even unknown
to me; an orphan, and though blessed with one who has well
performed a parent’s part, yet I have never known a mother’s
or a sister’s love, or met with one, in whom I could repose
confidence and claim sympathy in return. The sweets of
true social intercourse and friendly love, I have ever thought
the oaly blessings really worth living for, I have dwelt
much in the gay world, and call hundreds, friend, in the vul-
gar meaning of the title; yet have I felt utterly alone, and
wanting that bosom friend, even of my own sex, there must
ever be a blank, a chaos that robs life of half its attractions
and embitters the few that remain.”

Laura felt half disposed to laugh at Morton’s unlooked-for
speech, but his serious tone checked her humour. “The
pleasures we most desire,” she rejoined, “if granted, might
prove the sources of the keenest misery. Perhaps you are
fortunate, Mr. Morton, in not having met such a being. How
could you support the loss, to which you would be hourly
liable? how would your heart bear the anguish of misplaced
confidence ? how could you brook coldness and ingratitude,
where you expected affection and truth, and such is too often
the only return for generous confidence ; and were your se-
lection to fall upon one of my own sex, the consequences
might be still greater,” she added, smilingly.

“Most certainly, Miss Laura, with increased means and
capabilities of enjoyment, our exposures to disappointment
and pain are augmented; but would you have one grow up
in ignorance, because an enlightened and cultivated intellect

5*
54 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

may awaken aspirations and desires that can never be real-
ized; because what we learn may produce misery, in teach-
ing us how little, after all, we canknow? Would you forego
the attractions of the rose, in base dread of its thorns ?
Would you be like the wretch, who rather than fear a hell,
would lie down and die, body and soul, as the brute ?”

“You misunderstand me,” replied Laura; “I advanced no
such ignoble thought. I have been taught that a wise and
beneficent Providence controls all fur our good, and if we
have no friends, why should we not remember that it is bet-
ter to want them, than that the heart should be wounded in
finding those false, whom we had loved as true? So much
for friendship—now for love, and simply, is it not better not
to love, than to love vainly? You remember Cowley’s fa-
miliar lines,” she continued, her gay humour getting tired of
grave argument—

‘A mighty pain to love it is, and ’tis a pain that pain to miss,

But of all pains, the greatest pain, is to love and love in vain.”

“ Yet,” said Morton, in the same earnest tone, “ who would
forego the joys springing from a pure attachment? Who
would calmly resolve never to love, from the fear that his
affection might gain no return? No! Itis a redeeming trait
in our nature, that the vilest, that all, have at times visions
of some bright object, for whom they feel the heart, with all
its callous searings, can still find springs of ardent love, of
generous affection; an affection that would endear its object
even more than their own selfish selves. What is life, but
for reciprocated love? What emotion incites so powerfully
to noble and Herculean deeds? What will so triumphantly
ride down all opposition in the accomplishment of its ends ?
Campbell beautifully describes the forlorn condition of Eden
even—unblest with social companionship.”
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 55

“ And Burns,” said Laura, “has taken up the same theme,

in his couplet—

‘What signifies the life o’ man, +
An 't were na for the lasses O !’ =

What poet indeed has not sung such a song? But really,
Mr. Morton, one would take you for an envoy-extraordinary,
from the court of Cupid, you enter so diplomatically, and
discourse so earnestly, upon the dangerous matters of love.
No one can talk as you do, and be heart-whole. You need
my assistance in something—Lucy, perhaps; I hope my poor
cousin has not infringed the eighth command at your ex-
pense. Alas! she is one of those unfortunate beings, ‘ who,
meaning no mischief, do it all.” Well as I know Lucy, I can-
not account for the interest she seemed to feel in you, almost
intuitively, on our first meeting, and which has not decreased
by any means since, Your own voice, too, always falls in its
cadence, and your smiles, so rare, are called into play, when
with her. Really! what with Mr. Morton and Mr. Alston,
I shall tremble for my own claim upon Lucy. How is it, Mr.
Morton ? you look at this moment just as I should imagine
Hinda to have appeared upon the banks of ‘Oman’s green
water,’ singing, ‘ How sweetly does the moon: beam smile, to-
night upon yon leafy isle.’ ”

“You are not mistaken,” rejoined Henry, “in regard to
my admiration of Miss Staughton. From the first moment
of our meeting, she won my esteem, my love indeed ; but only
as a brother might regard a sister. She can never be to me
that one idolized object. of whom I have dreamed from ear-
liest years, as the chief joy of life. Did I wish it otherwise, I
feel myself greatly unworthy the pure love of such a being.
You may imagine my fancies, Miss Laura, visionary, perhaps
silly, yet while unrealized I cannot be happy.”

“ Indeed, sir,” returned Laura, “so far from thinking such
56 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

feelings beneath or unworthy manly dignity, I regard them
as the noblest mark of a noble and true breast. I could not
trust the man who despised such sentiments. Yet, that your
dreams are too idea! I cannot but think. The little, paltry, an-
noyancees of life will so obtrude and affect the most stvical,
that such pictures live but in the fancy.”

“Say not so! my picture is not ideal, there does live such
an one. If my dear Miss Rattleton will pardon my presump-
tion

“ Their lives such an one!” réechoed Laura, archly, and
with a provoking dullness, unable to restrain her habit of
teasing. “ Wonderful alchymist! you have discovered at last
the true philosopher’s stone; a moral gem, whose dazzling
radiance throws an Egyptian mantle over the golden dross
and sparkling jewels of Golconda! Happy being pe

“Miss Rattleton, I beseech you, banish your raillery.—
This moment I feel as one of the most interesting of my
life. My happiness hangs upon your words! Forgive me
if ot

“ Tangs upon my words !—Forgive you !—what? I as-
sure you, you may command my warmest influence, though
indeed you overrate it. Lucy ne

“TL implore you for a moment’s serious hearing. From the
first day of our acquaintance, I 2

“T saw it, sir,” rejoined Laura. “ You have before ac-
knowledged it; you may depend upon my aid, though I can-
not promise success. Lucy is indeed a gem, but many have
sought her in vain. I shall almost worship him who is able
to win the prize. But see! see!” she exclaimed, as the call of
the bugle again startled them, and a noble deer stood for an
justant upon a distant eminence, and then as suddenly
plunged into the forest. Morton’s eyes followed hers for a

 

 

 

 
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 57

moment, when, with a passionate air, he was again about to
speak, as Dighton joined them.

“A noble sight, Miss Rattleton,” said he; and turning to
Henry, who stood half embarrassed, mortified and angry at
his intrusion—“ You appear to take great interest in the
sport, my dear Morton. The gaine was bravely followed, yet
as bravely baffled the pursuers.”

Henry was replying, as Lucy and Alston drew near.
Charles had been rallying them, upon the sibyl’s predictions
to them of happiness, and at that moment glanced from one
to the other, with so significant a look, that a new light
seemed to break upon the mind of Lucy. Never, until this
moment, had it occurred to her, that her undisguised interest
in Mr. Alston’s society, might give just grounds for erroneous
conclusions in the minds of her friends, and perhaps in the
noble bosom of Alston himself. An expression of pain,
almost of conscious guilt, appeared in her countenance, with
the reflection, how futile such expectations must be. It van-
ished, however, almost in the same minute, as she again
thought of the little probability or even possibility of her—
even did she desire it—awakening any sentiment, other than
kind fnendship, in his heart. Her conduct though still smote
her, and she luoked anxiously round, as if for the means of
at oncé atoning for her error. Charles’s quick eye caught and
interpreted the glance, and he hastened to her relief.“ Mor-
ton,” he cried, in a humourous tone, “ Miss Staughton is
enamoured of yonder plant. Look! upon that narrow ledge
above us! She speaks you capable of chivalrous and gallant
deeds; quick !—prove her boast—lay the floweret at the lady’s
feet—and I, as sovereign umpire, bestow upon you her fair
hand for the rest of our homeward walk. It will be at Al-
ston’s expense, to be sure, but I have a wish for his society
myself, Stop, gentlemen!” he added, as the others were
58 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

following Henry up the craggy ascent, ‘‘ Mr. Morton is the
chosen knight.” He quickly gained the dangerous height,
and was leaning over to grasp the plant, as a miniature fell
from his bosom, and hung suspended for a moment, ere he
hastily replaced it.

“You see, Miss Rattleton,” said Dighton, “my friend has
not done gallant deeds for naught. Could vou but see the
original of that sweet fair one; England holds not a prettier,
or a nobler.”

“ What!” cried Laura, with surprise—“ What mean you,
sir?” -

“What meanI?” Miss Rattleton. “ What a question !
What but a well merited tribute to my friend’s prowess.
Why! ‘tis but one of many, and yet I think it the most
valued. Faith! I fear the poor fellow has paid a heavy
price for the trinket. Many though envy him, and I hope
he will yet be the happiest of the happy. While in England,
had he not been my friend, Henry Morton, I should have
envied him the admiration he every where gained. But hap-
pily he is blest with a goodly share of inconstancy—a valua-
ble trait in a gentleman’s character, Miss Rattleton—he is
very susceptible, but his love affairs are soon over; all sighs,
ardour and everlasting love to-day, and heart-whole to-mor-
row.” And thus Dighton ran on, in his malicious, yet appa-
rently frank and flattering encomiums upon his friend’s merits,
and secretly enjoying Laura’s surprise, embarrassment and
pain. She herself seemed half to regret her late bantering,
and half to congratulate herself upon it. The flower was in
Morton’s hand. A third blast of the bugle, now very near,
startled them. He had but half recovered his upright posi-
tion, and trembled so much that the ladies shrieked with
fear. The ledge upon which he was standing, was 4 narrow
ridge rising almost vertically from the point where they stood,
TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROOK, 59

and extending to an indefinite distance, until it gradually
widened, sunk, and fell into the general level of the moun-
tain, on either side. At the sound of the bugle, the form of
a deer was seen bounding precipitously along the narrow
parapet; the cries of the pursuit and the shrieks of the ladies
urged him on, with blinded and maddened speed; Morton
was unnoticed—the bodies met—the ledge was clear—and
rolling down the precipice, Henry fell, with the struggling
deer, at the feet of the frightened Lucy.

“Thank God!” she cried, leaning over him, “he still
breathes.” And before any could help, her unaided strength
had dragged the adventurous youth apart from the animal.
The poor girl blamed herself as the cause of all the mischief,
and bewailed her unhappy lot, as one of pain to herself and
misfortune to all who loved her. As Laura and the others
hastened to the spot, Dighton put them aside, and begged
Charles to take charge of the ladies, while he succoured his
friend. He soon relieved their fears, by informing them that
Henry had sustained no material injury, save some slight
fractures, and that he would probably be well again in a few
days. A litter was quickly provided and borne by the hunt-
ers, who had now come up in pursuit of their prey. They
soon reached the inn with saddened hearts. Dighton’s anx-
ious care of his friend won the thanks and applause of all.
He watched incessantly by his side, except when relieved by
Lucy, for he would permit no other assistance. Lucy was
glad in the charge, for she still called herself the unbappy
cause of the accident; but had the circumstances been very
different, and had he been any other, no kinder, or more
willing nurse, could have been found. Where sickness and
distress called for succour, Lucy was to be seen. In travel-
ling, her generous bounty won “ blessings on her sweet face”
from the lips of the roving mendicant; and at home, she was
60 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

the first in every object of mercy and charity. More often
seen in the humble cottage, than the lighted ball; more hap-
py in the poor boy’s grateful smile, than in the gay courtier’s
honied flatterings. Though times of intense excitement ruf-
fled the calm resignation of her spirit, and called forth a
moment’s involuntary complaint, she lived not for herself.
Her life knew no selfish thoughts, or provisions for her own
pleasure, but she made the joys of others her sole end and
study. She had felt the truth of the verse—“ to bless, is to
be blest,” and had gleamed the whitest star, in many of those
humble scenes of unobtrusive benevolence, of which the poet
speaks, in those pretty lines,

« Angels, when mercy’s mandate wing’d their flight,

Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight !”

CHAPTER X.

Hewry Morton’s misfortune cast a gloom over our tra-
vellers, which Charles’s best efforts failed to dispel : they sepa-
rated in consequence, for the night, at a very early hour.
Dighton remained as nurse and physician to the invalid.
How widely different were the feelings of each to the blithe
and careless hearts with which they began the day! In the
rude boudoir of the ladies, the usual reminiscences and playful
remarks upon the day’s incidents were exchanged for a
thoughtful silence. In Lucy’s mind, Alston was uppermost.
The thought that for the first time occurred to her upon the
mountain, again obtruded. Fascinated with Mr. Alston’s
engaging society, and thrown off her guard, by the gentle-
mauly ease—-the unobtrusive and apparently undesigned
manner, in which he had offered his attentions,—she had, un-
TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 61

thinkingly, treated him with as much confidence as she would
have shown to a very old friend, or even a brother. In re-
viewing her conduct, the reflection, that she had inconside-
rately given ground for hopes, that could not possibly be
realized, disturbed her tranquillity. She felt that she must
meet him with less cordiality and warmth than before ; and
her gentle heart was pained by the necessity ; and searching
more deeply, she was, for an instant, conscious of a more self-
ish sorrow in the denial. The discovery surprised her. That
Alston had gained more of her regard than it had been the
good fortune of any to obtain, she readily acknowledged. Yet
it was not love; such a thought she quickly repelled, while,
at the same time, she felt that years had fled since any event
had possessed the power to affect her, as would the loss of
his society and sympathy. A little reflection upon by-gone
incidents, which had before escaped her notice, told her that
both Laura and her brother would be highly gratified by his
alliance ; and how would they regard her indifference, when
every thing pleaded so eloquently in his favour? She, her-
self, could not find a single fault upon which to ground an
objection; although regarded in every way as a sister by
both, she could not at such moments avoid feeling herself be-
holden to their bounty for her support, and what would they
think of her, when she refused so strangely to relieve them of
the burthen? She, herself, felt abundant apology, but could
they understand and appreciate her motives? She had given
Pembroke the treasure of an all-absorbing, an only love; and
she conceived not how the heart, once engaged, could ever
feel a second passion ; she regarded such a thing as contrary
to the emotions of a pure soul—indeed, as almost unnatural
and criminal. She accused herself of faithlessness, and ex-
perienced a feeling of self-contempt, that she had suffered
thoughts of Alston to affect her in any way, or to find place
6
62 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

at all in her mind. The image of Pembroke was ever before
her—her whole heart was his, must be his—and the bare
idea of bestowing her hand upon another, drew a shudder
from the sensitive girl.

Old chords had been retouched in her bosom since her
meeting with Alston, and more particularly during her late
conversation upon the mountain. She sometimes fancied she
detected a singular resemblance in Mr. A. to her lost Arthur.
On the occasion in question, as she listened to his noble sen-
timents and eloquent language, the memory of her lover was
recalled with singular vividness, and that strange vague sup-
position, that the occurrences of the passing moment are but
a repetition of previously enacted scenes, when, where or how,
unknown to us,—troubled her. Alston himself seemed to
have divined her thoughts. “ Forgive me, Miss Stanghton,”
he had said, “if I read the images now passing your mind,
and in so doing awaken sad recollections of past scenes,—so
long gone by, however, that I hope they bring with them, not
the acute pang of yesterday’s grief, but only the mellowed
and pleasingly-sad effects of long-passed sorrows. I told you
your friends had related to me some incidents of your life.
You will be surprised to find an adventure of nine, remotely
associated with yourself. I will relate it, as it may dispel
some little wonder, which I fancy you manifest, when your
eye sometimes meets my own ;—a wonder arising from a
cause that I presume has operated not a little in gaining me
those marks of your esteem and friendship with which I have
been honoured. While in Spain, some years ago, circum-
stances added a new and valued name to my list of friends.
The acquaintance arose principally ‘from a striking resem-
blance of feature and person, between the gentleman and
myself, and was afterwards cemented by kindred minds and
tastes. This friend was—Arthur Pembroke. He was return-
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 63

ing from America, with no positive destination, and happen-
ing in Spain, during the civil contentions that have so re-
cently distracted that unhappy country, he paused in his
route and entered the army of the Infarta. He was rapidly
distinguishing himself in the service when we first met. Our
acquaintance was short, as in an engagement between the
queen’s troops and the Carlists, I myself was taken prisoner,
and Pembroke, as I afterwards learned from a comrade, was
left among the wounded upon the field. An exchange of
prisoners soon released me, and I returned to England, but
not without making numerous fruitless inquiries after my
friend.”

As Lucy recalled this narrative—if indeed it had been for
a moment furgotten—many sad reviews of past scenes were
conjured up, and she sought in vain for rest.

Laura was not less miserable—a circumstance which Lucy,
amid her own distress, failed not to notice; yet she assigned
for it a cause very different from the true one. Laura, under
all her show of reckless gaiety, hid deep and passionate feel-
ings. To Ilenry Morton she yielded her first, deep love.
Every hope of her life took its tone and tint from this affee-
tion ; yet none suspected the extent of the feeling, so com-
pletely did her proud and haughty spirit disguise what she
consideréd her weakness. From Henry even, she hid the se-
eret as studiously as from others. In the wild joyousness of
her heart, she had sported with his feelings in the morning,
against her better judgment; but oh! in a few short hours,
how bitter a reverse stung her bosom! The accidental dis-
play of the miniature, followed by Dighton’s crafty insinua-
tions, awakened within her a new and fearful passion. Deep,
corroding jealousy entered her breast; a feeling which was
not likely to display itself tamely, in such an one as Laura
64 TALLULAH 5 OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Rattleton, and which but slight cause could excite. To feel
herself slighted and duped by one in whom she had reposed
all the confidence and adoration of her young heart—to find
him false-hearted and unworthy of her love, was a reverse
she had never even feared, and the blow was so unexpected»
that it seemed for the time to alter her very nature. Yet she
was not one to indulge in grief; neither would she suffer any
one, and him least of all, to learn his power over her. Stern
pride came to her aid, and she resolved that he should be
baulked of his triumph. Passion, however, for the moment,
destroyed the calmness of her judgment and the softer impul-
ses of her nature. Deluded by Dighton’s carelessness, and
apparent sincerity of manner and kindness of purpose, she
never thought of questioning the truth of his stories and the
justness of her suspicions. In the madness of the moment,
she thonght with bitterness of the mutual partiality existing
between Morton and Lucy ; and as the poor girl tenderly in-
quired the cause of her sadness, she accused her of ungene-
rous treachery. Lucy knew the secret fervency of Laura’s
soul, but she was unprepared for this cruel charge. It sur-
prised and pained her; she rightly attributed it to over-
wrought feeling and maddened excitement. She gently re-
monstrated with her upon the wild folly of her charges,
soothed her irritated spirit, and endeavoured, when she won
a recital of her story from Laura, to palliate the AER
faithlessness of Morton.

“What! my dear Laura,” she said, “can you seriously lay
such charges at my door? Do you know your Lucy so poor-
ly, as to imagine her capable of such baseness? Oh, Laura!
Do you think I want fresh cause for sorrow? Would you break
my heart, by thinking me so unworthy of your love—you,
to whom I owe so much, and for whom I would make any
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 65

sacrifice even of life itself, did I value it a hundred times as
muchasIdv? Becalm, dearest, and reeall those cruel words.
I know you did not, you could not mean it.”

“T was mad, my Lucy,” sobbed Laura, as she embraced
her friend ; “I was unconscious of what I said.. Forgive me;
oh! forgive my inconsiderate folly, and forget that I have
pained you. I cannot forgive myself for an instant. Oh!
Lucy, I never till now kuew my own heart. If he loves me
not, he shall have nothing to congratulate himself upon; and
if he dues, he shall bitterly suffer for this alarm. Dighton
shall :

“Tfush! Laura. You must curb that proud heart; be-
ware what you do. Beware of Dighton. I cannot banish
Charles’s facetious prediction; and [ imagine more of truth
than fiction in it. Did you not notice his passion at the
time ?”

“His emotion was natural enough, dear Lucy,” replied
Laura, perversely defending him, from a natural spirit of con-
tradiction ; for though pleased with his brilliant manners, she
had as yet never bestowed a serious thought upon him. “So
delicately alive as Mr. D. is to every sentiment of honour, how
could he but be affected at such a charge? No, Lucy, you
do him injustice. He has many merits—manly beauty, intel-
ligence, and wealth. I wonder how Mr. M. would like him
for a rival ?”

“ Well,” said Lucy, perceiving how contrary an effect to
that which she desired would be produced by further argu-
ments on her part, “let us banish these dull thoughts until
to-morrow, and now seek our pillows. Adieu, dear! no more
to-night ; I am half asleep already.”

While this conversation was progressing above stairs,
Charles was rallying Alston upon his evident interest in Lucy.
Mr. A. neither acknowledged nor rebutted the charge, ex-

6*

 
66 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

cepting in the mention he made of the certain hopelessness of
his success, should he enter the lists for ber favour. He dis-
played neither gratification nor disappointment at her parti-
ality for Morton; and Charles, after scanning his countenance
closely for some time, and reading nothing, turned with a
surprised and disappointed air.

“ Frank!” he exclaimed, “I can make nothing of you!
you are impenetrable as a rock. With all your apparent
frankness and sympathy, you make no confidences. It is
every thing, and not ‘something’ only that ‘ye still keep,’ as
Burns says, ‘ to yersel’ and scarcely tell to ony’—and as for
reading your heart in your face, one might as well attempt
to pick secrets from the profile of Talleyrand! You shall tell
soft tales yet, though, to gentle ears. You can’t hold out for-
ever. Egad! I should like to see you surrender! I give
you good night, Alston.” :

As Dighton watched by the side of the sleeping invalid, he
revolved with pleasure the occurrences of the day; and a
gleam of malicious satisfaction disfigured his fine features, as
he seemed to muse upon some unfinished plan.

“ All will be well,” he muttered, “if he recovers not too
soon; and of that I’ll take care. At any rate, he shall not in-
terfere with my purpose. I have her brother's good will and
influence, which will go far. The girl is proud— maidens,
like moths, are ever caught,’ &c.,-I'll excite her avarice and
love of pomp. IfI play my cards well, a little fit of jealousy
—and she’s the metal for such tender emotions—will do me
service. Phillips,” he added, as that worthy now entered the
room, “you assisted this morning in the farce at the old wo-
man’s hut?”

“Yes.”

“Look you man, did you betray me? Said you aught to
assist in the manufacture of those d d rhymes ?”

 

 
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 67

“T said nothing,” answered the man stubbornly ; “I don’t
write poetry. What reason have I to betray you ?”

“True, you have no reason. I trust but little, though, in
your honesty, only that I know your own best interest is to
keep my counsel. Villain! If I find you treacherous, I know
that which sball hang you on the highest gibbet in England!”

“Umph !” growled Phillipsp—* Many thanks for your kind
intentions. I don’t expect to be in England again shortly ;
so you must serve me in some other way, if you are deter-
mined to place me under obligations. May it please you, I
prefer the free and equal manners of the Americans to your
service in England.”

“So I perceive,” replied Dighton, repressing his anger ;
“you are an apt pupil in a republican school. But we need
not quarrel ; serve me well, and you gain the means and lib-
erty of exercising your own choice in regard to your future
movements. Keep your dexter eye open,” he continued, toss-
ing himself upon a dilapidated settee-—‘ while I

“And,” interrupted Phillips, “with your sinister one,
which is always open, we shall manage to m

“Curse your republican impudence! Don’t bandy your
wit with me, sirrah! Watch, I say, while I make love for
an hour to this vile ghost of a couch.”

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

Dienron’s slumbers were interrupted by a knock at his
door, followed by the entrance of the landlord and a female
of advanced years, and habited in very a humble garb.

“ Doctor White,” commenced the visitor, “ isn’t at home ,
and won’t be for a week; and there ain’t no other doctor
68 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

no wheres near hut the woman that lives in the but, as you
went to see to-day. Dame Currahce, as we call her, has
got back, and says she’s willing to wait upon the sick gentle-
man.”

“What! who?” interrupted Dighton, “the old woman?
the

“The same,” returned the host, “though if she és a witch,
she’s a ‘huinan’ too, and a good-hearted one as ever lived,
and she’s got n ore larnin’ in the physic than the doctor, for
nobody else ever attends about here when she’s in the way,
and nobody never dies under her managementation.”

“And so, my good woman, you mix up drugs with spells
and charms? But what are you frightened at ?” continued
Dighton, as she started back with an ejaculation of surprises
in answer to his full gaze into her face—*I shan’t swallow
eithar you or your medicines.”

 

“I— I—” muttered the woman, “was looking at the
sick gentleman—he seems very bad ; I don’t think he'll live.”

“Ah! answered Dighton, and then, as a new idea shot
through his brain, ‘‘as the doctor cannot be procured, we
must avail ourselves of what aid we can get. I have known
many people in your mode of life singularly successful in cur-
ing diseases. Landlord and you, Phillips, may leave the
room. JI fear our conversation may disturb the invalid—I
will arrange matters with this gvod woman myself.”

While Dighton was speaking, the woman’s face wore the
same look of surprise, and her frame seemed agituted as her
eyes rested upon the door that had closed upon the receding
forms of the landlord and servant. Dighton observed her
emotion; inquiringly ; she gazed again at him steadily, and
then cast her eyes towards the couch of the sick.

“What mean you, woman?” said Dighton, after a long
silence—“ honestly, I trust—yet I like not your looks. I
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 69

doubt the goodness of your intentions; your life shall be the
forfeit of any imposition or deceit.”

“Sir! me deceive? What interest have J in injuring
him ?”

“True,” returned Dighton, “you are not apt to practice
your villanies without reward. Now I have no doubt rewards
might be made sufficiently tempting to induce you to sacti-
fice him or any one else. Ay ?”

“Sir !” replied the woman, a look of intelligence and cun-
ning passing over her features—" reward ? for what?”

“Ah! You understand me now, I see,” offering her some
gold.

She hesitated, but took the proffered coin.

“You said just now you thought he would not live. There,
your skill is at fault. Now, I presume, it is much the same
with you as with most of your vagabond race : it matters lit-
tle, so the reward be the same, whether you kill of cure ?”

‘We are poor,” answered the woman. “ We need money,
and we don’t hesitate at safe means to supply our wants, but
the one service is dangerous, and worth more than the other.
When we cure, it enlarges our business, while the other
branch is unsafe, and always injures, if it doesn’t ruin our
character.”

“Plain enough,” returned Dighton; “but your answer
proves you awake, and no tyro in your vocation. This is quite
a lucky chance. We can both serve our ends, and mutually
oblige. It is to my interest that the patient be an absentee
from our party for a while. Keep him on the sick bed for a
few weeks ; represent the necessity to the others of the com-
pany ; also the need of perfect quiet, and on that account in-
duce them to continue their travels at once, and rejoin your
patient on their return, Accomplish this simple task, and
70 TALLULAH} OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

this purse is yours, now, and shall be doubled on my return.
Do you promise 2?”

“Yes,” answered the woman promptly.

“Succeed, and you shall be amply rewarded ; fail, and you
shall rue it dearly.”

Here the colloquy was interrupted by the awakening of
the invalid, and Dighton left the new nurse to perform her
office.

“ Strange, indeed,” she soliloquized. “The bait has taken
well. I did not think it would be so easy to entrap him. T’ll
ferret out this affair. There is matter of more importance
than there seems to be.”

From this soliloquy of the nurse, the reader will gather her
real character, and will not wonder that the cordial and grate-
ful conduct of the patient won an unusual share of her kind
attention and effort. She had suddenly appeared at Curra-
hee, from whence, nobody knew, as she never spoke of her
previous life. ‘aking up her abode upon the mountain in
the character of a sibyl, she was long regarded as insane,
though now people merely considered her as a strange, ec-
centric being, which traits were forgotten in the love that all
around bore her, for many kind and neighbourly courtesies,
and acts of kindness to the sick and needy. Divining Digh-
ton’s designs, she had adroitly drawn bim out, and now de-
terinined to watch him narrowly, and to protect Morton from
his wiles.

In keeping her promise to Dighton, she informed Henry of
the probable extent of his confinement, and suggested his
urging his friends to proceed, rather than selfishly detain
them until it would be too late in the season to go at all.
He admitted the advice at once; more easily determined,
probably, by the repulse he received from Laura on the moun-
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 71

tain. It opened his eyes to the thought that he might have
been in error, in supposing he enjoyed any particular place in
her regard: her reception of Mr. Dighton, and that gentle-
man’s inuendoes, sustained the idea. He resolved to learn the
worst without delay, and if his fears were realized, to make a
vigorous struggle to free himself from her presence and influ-
ence. Grasping a pen, he poured forth a full and passionate
avowal of his attachment—implored her acceptance of his
suit, and begged an instant knowledge of his fate. This the
nurse entrusted to Phillips to deliver, with an injunction to
fidelity, that his better genius advised him to obey. Phillips
might have been an upright and useful man, but for the force
of great temptations, and the influence of stronger and vicious
minds. Circumstances bound him to Dighton, and made
him a sharer in his errors; but he felt an attachment for Mor-
ton, and a mixture of fear and regard for the sibyl, which
warred hard with his sinful course. He was hastening to
execute his trust, when he came suddenly upon Dighton, who
observing the paper, demanded it; threatened Jack for his
thouyhtlessness in not submitting it to him, and despatched
him with another note of no import to Miss Rattleton, in
order to obtain her writing, and that Jack miglit be known to
have actually delivered aud received a communication from
her. On the servant’s return, Dighton imitated Laura’s
“hand ” with skilful exactness, in the fullowing reply to Mor-
ton’s letter:

“With Miss Rattleton’s acknowledgment of the reception
of Mr. Morton’s note of this morning, she begs to present her
compliments, and to express her great surprise at the tenor
of his communication. She regrets, exceedingly, that in her
intercourse with Mr. M. he has so mistaken her sentiments, as
to fancy any grounds for the supposition that he is regarded,
or can ever be considered, by her, in any nearer relation than
72 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

is permitted by the ordinary and friendly intercourse of socie-
ty. She thinks that Mr. M., upon reflection, will congratu-
late himself that Miss R. is unable to reply otherwise. She
trusts Mr. M. will regard this matrer as though it were not,
and that it may never again be mentioned. Miss R. feels
honoured by the high compliment implied in Mr. M.’s letter,
and sincerely wishes him al! possible happiness.
Wednesday morning.
To Mr. Henry Morton.”

This note determined Henry, and he seconded the request
of the nurse that they should continue their travels. Lucy
opposed the plan, and endeavoured to make peace. She tried
to effect an interview between Laura and Morton, but he de-
clined it so positively that she really placed sume credence in
Laura’s ground of complaint. Laura, tired of every place,
was anxious and urgent to go.

We return for a moment to Phillips. Stung with the ef-
fect of the forged note upon his master, and irresistibly influ-
enced by the admonitions of the woman, and her apparent
knowledge of him and interest in his welfare, thougbts of his
early days returned ; of the watching, prayers, and instruc-
tions of his neglected and injured mother. As he ran over
the actions of his life of errur, and compared the actual re-
wards of his vices with the blessings of a virtuous career, the
hardened man wept, and mentally resolved to atone for the
past, with a future of rectitude and honesty, and to begin the
change at once. But alas! he lacked the courage to go at
once to Morton and confess his fault, and only wrote an ex-
planation of the note from Laura, which he consigned to the
sibyl for delivery.
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 73

CHAPTER XII.

In the mean time the carriages were prepared, and Laura
only remained in her room, when Jack presented his note to
the nurse. Being unsealed, she hastily read it, and hurried
to meet Laura.

“ Beware, lady !” she exclaimed, as she entered her pre-
sence. “ Trust him not! he is false !”

“What know you of him 2?”

“Oh! much, lady !—tvo much—believe me—I’ve known
him long !”

“ You speak strangely, woman; how and when have you
known him? And why do you suppose that I am at all in-
terested ?”

“Trifle not, lady! He loves you not—he seeks your ruin !
Yet he shall not succeed ; I will protect you. Here—here !”
she added hastily, as Dighton approached to conduct her to
the carriage—* here—read—'twill explain all,” and she thrust
Phillips’s note into Laura’s hand, forgetting that he himself
had not read it.

Seeking the first moment when alone with Lucy, which
was not until the carriages drew up at a distance of five miles,
at the lovely cascade of Toccoa, she perused the epistle.

“ Honoured Sir:

In my life, I have been guilty of many crimes, and have
deceived yourself as well as others, I cannot forgive myself
for treachery to one who has been so kind to me as you and
yours have, and I humbly beg pardon and send this explana-
tion, as some atonement. The letter I sent you was not from
the lady to whom you wrote, but another. I think she loves

7
74 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

you, and that you may yet succeed. I hope it is not too late
to remedy the error.
Praying your forgiveness,
Iam your servant to command,
Joun Puttiirs.
To Mr. Henry Morton.”

This note was written, unfortunately, on the blank leaf of
an old letter from Jack to his master, while in England, and
bore the London post-mark. He had torn it off hastily from
a parcel of refuse MSS. to answer his present purpose. This
fact, together with the absence of date inside, and the general
and ambiguous style of the writing, defeated its end.

“Tis too true!” said Laura. “She said this would ex-
plain, and it corroborates her statements. LHe is false-—as
men—as the world—as hope-—as every thing! You will
acknowledge now, Lucy. His own servant confesses himself
guilty of crimes—in his master’s service, of course. Perhaps
this is only one of many similar shameful affairs. The letter
he says was not from the one he wrote to, but another!
What intrigues are these? The ladies must be those he is
unacquainted with—even their names,—or he could himself
individual.ze their letters; a vile libertine! O! that I ever
could have loved such an one. ‘He thinks,’ he says, ‘she
loves him, and he may yet succeed.’ Monster!” Lucy was
silent from grief at these proofs of enry’s unworthiness, and
a consciousness of the little service of attempting to soothe
her friend's irritated spirit.

* Come, ladies,” said Charles, returning to them, “ why do
you linger behind so long—this is unusual. Here is my gay
sister personating the heroic Calliope, or the tragical Melpo-
mene, This is not artistical, Laura; ’twill do admirably for
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 15

the geaius of Tallulah; ‘the terrible; but what think you,
Alsten, would not the fair Erato be in better keeping with
the gentle magic of Toveva 2”

“ Far better,” replied Mr. Alston ; “I would have wagered,
too, that Miss Laura’s heart would have been the earliest of-
fering at this shrine of beauty, rather than the last.”

Here they stoud at the margin of the basin which receives
the descending spray of Tuccoa; a spot of such exquisite
beauty as to win the mind involuntarily from the deepest
grief.

A picturesque and serpentine path had led them several
hundred yards, through a dense furest wood, from the rvad-
side, where they had left their carrieges, to the streamlet of
Toccoa. They now stood at its base: before them soared
perpendicularly, to the majestic elevation of one hundred and
eighty-six feet, a mountain of dark rock, so regular and un-
broken in its formation, as Lo appear more a stupendous effort
of human power, than the work of nature. This wall of rock
does not extend far, as the banks gradually rising on either
hand, reach the upper bed of the stream, where the water
pursues its gentle course through an extensive spread of com-
paratively level land. The charm of Toccoa is perfect. It is
taken in at a glance. The artist finds nuthing to omit in his
picturings, but detects in its tout ensemble, that complete
and rare beauty, to obtain which he is generally compelled to
unite the pride of many spots ; as the Grecian artist combined
all the gems of his classic land in those sublime and incum-
parable master-pieces of human genius—the Venus and the
Apollo. The stream is scarcely more than fifteen feet in
width, and sometimes so shallow, that the descending mass—
at all times nothing more than a column 0° spray—yields
gracefully to the breath of the lightest zephyr, and, like a
water-spirit, glides in its descent joyously to the right and
76 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

left, in a hundred magic and matchless windings. The noise
of the fall is not sufficient to mar the quiet genius of the spot-
It umtes well with the munnurs of the winds, and the songs
of the birds in the tree tops; the half angry, balf playful gam-
bols of the waves in the dark basin, and the cool temperature
that always prevails here, while all around is sinking under
the fervid heat of asummer sun. Toccoa is a spot which will
extort, if needed, a passing tribute. Like the beaming smile
of infant beauty, the harsh frown of heartlessness or care can-
not live in its presence. Placing “nature” as the object of
passion, one might say of Toccoa, in Byron’s words,
“ He who hath loved not, here would learn that love.”

It is a spot where the spirit widd steal forth and blend in
brotherhood with the objects and influences around ; where
the earth and elements, of which we were once a part, and to
which, in the course of nature, we shal! be resolved again,
claim kindred, and become

“A part
Of us, and of our souls, as we of them.”

“Must we go ?” said Lucy, as they were preparing to leave,
“T could linger days in this sweet place. It seems to me to
possess the talismanic power of the manipulator, in the mo-
dern theory of animal magnetism, that of blending the soul
and mind of his patient with his own, and wafting her
thoughts whither and where he will.”

“T think,” added Laura, speaking from the heart, “ that
one alinost realizes here the fabled fountain of Lethé, with the
advantage that while it banishes the past of sorrow and sad-
ness from the soul, it leaves and tints anew the hours and
scenes of joy: casts a brighter colouring upon the present,
and suggests kind auguries for the future.”

“Why hasten away ?” returned Lucey; “ to-morrow will
be as to-day—the end of our efforts will be then as now—
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. q7

happiness. We shall find no pleasanter place : come, cousin
Charles, order a countermarch.”

“Your suggestion, Lucy, is certainly en philosophe and
vatural. This pretty brook itself, here running so rapidly
from its fairy basin to other lands, would halt in its course,
were it of your school ; for it will find, in all its wanderings,
no place more lovely than that it now leaves behind; but on
it will go, accomplishiug its destiny, until lost in the great
ocean of waters. So man’s nature is one of change and pro-
gression—in youth, sighing for mature age; each day long-
ing for the next, and all enjoyed pleasures inferior to anticipa-
ted good ; on—on, until he, too, is lost in the great ocean of
waters—buried in deep oblivion, and heard of no more. So
we, Lucy, must not combat the course of nature, but must be
content to accomplish our destiny, and leave Toccoa to hunt
some of those objects of future pleasure, which, the nearer we
approach, the farther they are off. What. think you of that,
Laura, for a Solomon-like reply to Lucy’s sentimental wish to
remain at Toccoa; live perhaps on black-berries and butter-
cups, and sleep on a moss-grown rock, as the moon-beams
kiss the crests of the little waves in the basin 2”

Omitting the strain of mingled sentiment and badinage
which now followed, and supposing our travellers to have
happily passed over the few miles which separate the stream-
let of Toccoa from the grander cataracts of the famed Terrora,
we will rejoin them at the little cottage, occupied as the inn
of Tallulah, about two miles from the Falls. Passing the
house, they met Phillips, who had accompanied them at the
particular wish of Morton, and had ridden on to meet his
parents, whom he expected, from information received in
England, to find at Tallulah. This cireamstance accounts also
for Dighton’s visit to the spot. Ata motion from Phillips,
Dighton fell back from the party.

nk
18 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

“Tlow speed you, Jack ?” asked he anxiously.

“This is a wild-gouse chase,” replied Phillips, sadly—
“balked !”

“How! Was our information false? Do you deceive me ?
You have grown serious and puritanical lately,” he added,
with a sneer,

“T speak the truth. I wish to heaven ’twas not so! Our
information was currect, but we are too late. My parents, as
we learned, wandered to this place, and spent some years in
yonder bouse. When my father died, my poor mother for a
time lost her senses, and went off, nobody knows where, and

-has not been heard of since.”

“Well! this is a pretty end of our plans,” returned the
other; “but if the oll lady is out of the way, thank God
the cabinet and will are not likely to plague us. We must
find her though, if living. But first banish, for heaven’s sake,
that gallows-looking countenance, and act like yourself.”

“I can bear your sneers, sir. I deserve those of all nen. I
was an ouly son; my poor father died of a broken heart, and
I was the cause of it. My mother in her madness, they tell
me, alternately cursed and blessed her wretched son. I am
now another man. 1 care not fur existence, only that I may,
as much as I can, atone for past errors by a life of pain and
remorse. I have vowed fidelity to you, sir, and though you
have been the cause of all my sins, I will not add treachery
to the list. Your counsels are safe with me, but I resign for-
ever all share in your proceedings.”

As Phillips finished, he turned abruptly to the house, leav-
ing Dighton utterly astonished at his tone and address. Pass-
jog along, his eyes fell upon a letter in the road, which on
examining he was surprised to find to be his own to Mr. Mor-
ton. Rivhtly divining it never to have reached its destina-
tion, he determined to forward it at the earliest moment. An
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 79

opportunity soon presented of conveying it to the neighbour-
ing post-town.

CHAPTER XIII.

Tr is necessary, reader, for the right development of our
drama, to lead thee once again from the principal theatre and
actors. Entering a fashionable house in that élite portion of
the city of New-York, traversed by Fourth-street, and gliding
into the drawing-room gently, so that you disturb not the
occupant, you will find old Mr. Morton, of the firm of Murton
& Co., intently engaged in scanning a pile of letters received
by the evening’s mail. The night in question is about a
week previous to the arrival of Henry Morton and his friend
at the Currahiee.

Seal after seal had been broken; the contents of many
glanced over with haste or indifference; a smile or a frown
accompanied the perusal of others, as the old merchant feli-
citated himself upon some lucky speculation, or brooded upon
the China advices of the fall of teas, or his English corres-
pondent’s relation of the depression of stocks.

“Whew! Profit and loss !”——his favourite oath—he ex-
claimed, as his eye rested on a sheet of more interest than
usual——* What’s all this ?”

We take the opportunity of the old gentleman’s filling his
glass, snuffing his candles, and adjusting his spectacles, to
glide behind his chair, and peering over his shoulder, read
with him.

“ Ahem !”

“ Coxwar, (Enezanp,) July —, 18—.
William Morton, Esq., New-York :

Dear Sir: My communication may appear strange to you,

but I sincerely trust your knowledge of the subject matter is,
80 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

or will be, sufficient to give you an interest in it. You were
once engaged in commercial transactions with old Sir John
Staughton, uncle of the Jate Sir Richard Staughton, of Con-
way Hall. Isay ‘late,’ for that gentleman departed this life
a few days ago, and it is his death that furnishes the object
of this communication. As you may not be familiar with the
circumstances of the family, I will relate incidents necessary
to the rightful understanding of what I have tosay. Old Sir
John had, at his death, two nephews : to Edward, the young-
er, he was supposed to have willed his estates, but the will
never having been found, Richard, the elder, fell into the pos-
session, and the universal impression being that fraud was
connected with the affair, the younger nephew left home in
disgust, and visited America. His ship was wrecked off the
coast, and with it was lust his only son, a mere child. After
passing some time in Boston, he visited the South, with his
other child, a daughter, where we understand one or both
died. You will wonder what all this has to do with you.
Much, I hope. The sequel explains. Four years Sir Richard
lived much alone, and has gradually declined, under the ef-
fects (it is thought) of a gnawing conscience. Tis only com-
panion has been his lawyer, a man notoriously unprincipled,
and who, at the time of the circumstances of the will, was so
intimately connected with the affairs of the ‘ Hall, that the
villagers have tacitly regarded them as partners in guilt. As
years fled on, the feeling was dying away, until recently the
return of another fellow to England, who is supposed to have
been a tool of the attorney——and his re-embarkation with the
attornev himself for the United States—has renewed the curi-
osity. This man is Alfred Dighton; his accomplice, John

Phillips. Both, in their late voyage, we learn, accompanied
; your own son, Mr. Henry Morton; the last mentioned of the
two, in the capacity of Mr. Morton’s servant, and, I am told,
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 81

once was in your own service abroad. The object of this
voyage was long a matter of great curiosity 5 4 curiosity now
allayed by what I have farther to detail. After the depar-
ture of Dighton, Sir Richard drooped daily. He would see
no cne, except his physician and myself, his clergyman. We
readily discovered the real cause of his complaint to arise
from mental ill, but essayed in vain to draw from him a son-
fidence in his distress. On the night of . believing his
end approaching, he requested to s:e me alone, and I then
learned from his own liys the truth of the surmises so rife for
many years. It appears that in conjunction with this Digh-
ton, then a mere boy, and Phillips, he had obtained posses-
sion of the will of his uncle—that the document was entrust-
ed to the care of Phillips, to be destroyed, but was placed
instead in a secret part of a cabinet, in the possession of his
mother, once the nurse of Mr. Edward Staughton’s family.
That the deep attachment of this woman to her patrons led
her to emigrate to America, hoping probably to meet again
with some of them; that she traced them to the South, and
finally settled in Georgia, at the Falls of the Tallulah, where
she is at this time, and where Dighton and his fellow are
gone to meet her, in order to obtain the will, if still in exist-
ence. They are particularly desirous of effecting this for se-
curity’s sake, as Sir Richard, being completely under the in-
fluence of Dighton, has left him heir to his estates—and it is
rumoured that one or both the heirs of Edward Staughton
are still living! As soon as I received this confession, I
begged Sir Richard to assent to it and sign it in form, in the
presence of witnesses. He agreed, but it was too late—he
died alinost immediately, and there now rest no other evi-
dence than my own statements, not sufficient to invalidate the
claim of Dighton, even if the Staughtons be living, unless the
lost will be recovered.

 
82 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

I make you this statement, and enclose you the necessary
affidavits, trusting to you to take such steps as circumstances
and your ability enable. 1 feel deeply interested in the fami-
ly, and should rejvice to know them living and re-instated in
their rights,

With many apologies for my long trespass upon your time,
I au, sir, your friend and servant,
Arruur PemBroks,
¥- Rector of Conway.”

In the same mail with the above were letters from Henry
and Dighton himself. Mr. M.’s actions were as prompt as his
decisions. The remainder of the evening was passed in ad-
justing his affaires de voyage, and the following day found
him on his way to the South,

The close of the day fullowing the departure of his friends,
Henry, under the kind care of his nurse, had rapidly recover-
ed. She had exacted from him a promise to remain fur the
present at the inn, and to suffer his companions to believe
him still an invalid. The wish of the woman was so earnest,
and he felt so little interested in it either way, that he con-
sented. A few minutes before, though, the mail had brought
him the note which Phillips had returned from Tallulah, and
he was insisting upon a release from his promise to the nurse,
as the dvor opened, and old Mr. Morton presented himself!

We pass over the explanations that followed. Suffice it,
that it was resolved no time should be lost, and that day-
break should greet them posting to the Falls. The old nurse,
who had been an unobserved yet deeply interested auditor of
the interview, expressed such an earnest wish to accompany
them, that it was not denied.

‘
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK, 83

CHAPTER XIV.

Dreuron had overtaken his companions, as the roaring of
the cataracts betokened their near approach to the Tallulah 5
arriving in time to assist in securing the horses at the usual
dipét, for which the necessary conveniences had gained the
euphonious name of “the Horse-rack.” This was not effect-
ed without difficulty—the noble auimals, as if animated like
their masters with the spiit of the waters, pricking up their
ears, and executing divers unruly prances, not at all wise or
commendable upon the brink of an almost fathomless preci-
pice. The tuinult of feeling and expectation that the ap-
proach to surprising and sublime scenes always excites, was
increased by this sympathy, with the effurts to allay it, and
hurrying onwards, a very few steps brought them to the edge
of the chasm. Wel! might they gaze long, and with silent
awe, Tallulah is not the spot to be insulted with an inces-
sant, Babel-rattling of school-girl exclamations of delight and
sugar plum eulogies; its genius exacts the impressive, voice-
less homage that © passeth show.” The eye, gazing from its
eyry station downwards, through a fearful opening in the
mountains of the Blue Ridge, between immense walls of solid
rock, passing strata upon strata, secks, like the deluvian dove,
long for a resting place, yet finds no “olive branch,” until tra-
versing a chaos of one thousand feet, it rests at last upon the
tops of trees, of forest size, now dwindled to the perspective
magnitude of road side shrubs. Among these trees, growing
at the base of the ravine, winds the Tallulah, leaping in its
passage amid beds of craggy rocks and over precipices, that
but for the great chasm, at whose feet they lie ahashed and
unnoticed, “ might well themselves be deemed of dignity.”
The stream, in its course through the ravine, makes no less
84 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

than seven cascades, of every variety of extent, character and
beauty. The spot at which our travellers first stood is the
nearest point of observation, revealing the deepest part of the
abyss, and the first though smallest of the Falls.

“Tow gentle the murmur from the fall Lelow,” said Al-
ston, “compared with the wild roar of the neighbouring cata-
racts. Pray, Charles, how is it baptized ?”

“As you might, from its gracefully circuitous course, sup-
pose,” answered Charles, “[t is the serpentine, the lowest of
the cascades, if indeed it may be so called, when scarcely more
than a vivacious gambul of the waters, or a line of rapids.”

“ And this?” again inquired Alston, as proceeding up the
path they paused to gaze at the second fall.

“Is the Horicon,” returned.Charles—* The cascade of the
silvery waters. It is perhaps the prettiest fall in the chasin ;
and that group of nuble trees, growing by its side, and look-
ing from above, like a lawn of emerald, is in exquisite keep-
ing with its gentle descent and fleecy and snow-white appear-
ance.” ,

Passing onwards towards the next fall, they partook of the
grateful water of the “ nectar spring,” which rises in the path.

“This spol,” continued Charles, as they stood upon a mass
of rocks hanging fearfully over the gulf, “is a noted one in
the topography of Tallulah; one from which more of the
chasm and a greater number of cascades are visible at a
glance, than from any other site. It bears the ordinary name
of, the Pulpit. Why?—you may gather from its situation.
The cascade below is the largest and the most bvisterous of
the whole. It is the ‘Oceana,’ and would of itself, even in
situations of Jess sublimity than this, be a point of great
attraction.”

“It reminds one,” said Dighton, “of Byron at Tivoli,
where
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 85

‘The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss,
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung from out this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around in pitiless horror set.’”

“Very apropos,” said Laura. “But the noble poet's de-
scriptions, and particularly his lines upon Tivoli, are so life-
like, such incomparable pictures of nature, that in scenes of a
like class we are ever detecting similar features that would
well answer as their originals. See, now! the sun has burst
forth, and there is the enchanting arc-en-ciel hovering over
the waves. Tow appropriately you might apply the. last
stanzas of his ‘Terni,’ in which he likens the heaven-born
rainbow, risivg, in its softness and beauty like a pure spirit of
peace and love over the ‘infernal surge,’—to ‘hope upon a

death-bed’—

‘Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene,
Love, watching madness with unalterable mien.’ ”

“The rainbow,” added Charles, “is a constant guest here,
and a favourite, though familiar one, to allramblers at water-
falls. We must seek an opportunity to see it by moon light.
You would certainly, Laura, pronounce the pure white cres-
cent an angel of mercy, or a ‘thing of spirit birth” But we
linger too long. Don’t you think the first of the falls, seen
above the Oceana, equally worthy of a stormy title and a
poetic eulogy? Though smaller, its perpendicular descent is
greater, as also the noise of its fall ; from the latter circum-
stance, I presume, it receives its name——t Tempesta.’ The
other of the three seen from the * Pulpit’ is the ‘ Lodore,’
small, yet between rocky banks of most magnificent altitude.
The only frequented and easy descent to the bed of the river
is but a little distance from here, and will lead us to a spot

8
86 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

between Lodore and Tempesta, at the fuot of the one, and at
the top of the other.”

“Let us hasten on, then,” said Alston; “I love to stand in
the very midst of Nature’s wonders ; to sink into an atom at
the base of huge chasms ; to find my loudest voice an impo-
tent, soundless effort, by the side of raging floods; to quiver,
as the yielding bough, at the breath of the sweeping hurri-
cane, and to feel the littleness of man and his mightiest
works, as I gaze upwards and see every where around me the
stupendous creation of Him at whose command the everlast-
ing hills stand fast.”

“ And what myriads of fancies,” interrupted Lucy, catch-
ing his enthusiasm, “ dance around us while thus entombed !
How many speculations and imaginings of the world and its
creatures beyond those barriers! Some such a feeling—only
of a higher caste—as we have in childhood, when we long to
look over the hedge which bounds our usual range, and see
what lies beyond, or to climb the neighbouring mountain and
find out where the sun goes, after we lose his beams.” :

“The sublime in nature,” continued Mr. Alston, ‘has al-
ways a voice not only pleasing, but useful. What sermon
can teach us better our own place in ‘ being’s universal chain,’
than scenes such as those of which we have been speaking ?
‘What can better dispel pride, and exhibit our dependence
upon superior power? Pride, haughty, solitary, gloomy
pride, whether shown towards our fellow-men or our God, is
always an empty quality, productive of no shadow of enjoy-
ment, and possessing none of the charms springing from a
trustful dependence upon a wiser and more powerful arm, or
a generous confidence in the regard and sympathy of our fel-
lows.”

While Alston was speaking they had reached the descent
to the Falls.
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 87

“This winding way, Frank,” whispered Charles, “ will now
lead us to Lucy’s spot of spots—her cherished ‘Trysting
Rock,’—conquer now, Alston, (for you cannot deceive me,)
and you gain the victory in the enemy’s very camp! ‘Charge,
Chester, charge !—-on, Stanley, on! are the last words of
Ratileton.”

A bend in the path brought them to the spot in question
named, from having been the meeting place, in days of yore,
of two Indian lovers. Forming an excellent shelter from the
rain and sun, it was used as a half-way resting place in the
descent. At this time a part of a small tree had lodged hori-
zontally in the oppusite sides of the recess, serving as a wel-
come, though rude seat. As they entered the spot, Lucy,
who had lived with herself and the scene around for the last
hour, sank upon the seat, apparently exhausted. Dighton
had passed on to the rocks below, as Charles in his general.
ship pleaded an exeuse of fatigue for his cousin, and assigned
Alston the task of recovering her and rejoining the others
below.

“T fear, Miss Staughton, the walk has wearied you,” said
Alston, in alow and agitated voice. ‘ Or, perliaps, the asso.
ciations suggested by surrounding objects will account fur your
indisposition. Pardon my abruptuess. No idle curiosity led
me to learn your history, and I feel too deeply interested in
your welfare to have forgotten the events of this spot. You,
on one occasion, forgave my temerity in venturing counsel
and rebuke. May I ayain use a bother’s freedom, and sug-
gest the importance of banishing or curing these griefs ?”

“thank you, Mr. Alston, for the kind interest you have
manifested in my happiness ; I wish I were more worthy of
your regard. I fear you have little esteem for a creature so
weak and silly as myself.”

“ You so kindly appreciate and bear my interference,” said
88 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Alston, “ that I will seize this opportunity to prevail upon
you, if possible, to forget the past, and in that forgetfulness,
and the means of enjoyment at your command, be again as
you may be—happy.”

“Alas! Mr. Alston, the past will ever be with me, the pre-
sent and the future also. Its occurrences have tinged my
whole life with a fatal dye, that the grave alone can expunge.
You, if no other, can understand me, and a moment’s reflec-
tion will show you how useless it is to attempt to cure a
mortal wound.”

“1 do understand you, my dear Miss Lucy, but I see not
the wisdom of such long repinings. There are many hearts in
the world that will love you as ardently as the one you
mourn, and when one flower is faded, why not cull another—
perhaps quite as fragrant? When Providence calls us from
our friends, why not seek friends among those with whom
our lot may be cast? When those we esteem are away, why
not love those who are near? It is evidently God’s will that
we should thus act.”

“ And does Mr. Alston,” returned Lucy, “ censure the heart
that proves constant in its attachments and true to its vows,
and eulogize the base soul that, empty and false, will wor-
ship at every shrine—upon the dying embers of one attach-
ment kindling another, and another, all evidently as worth-
less and contemptible as the heat that can be thus pliant?
Are these Mr. Alston’s sentiments—and is it thus he would
act ?”

“TI cannot say what might be my conduct so cireum-
stanced,” replied Alston. “It would be such as I thought
duty demanded. I honour your noble constancy of heart,
Miss Staughton, but there are duties to God and to mankind,
the fulfilment of which are more imperative, and which call
upon you to alter your life so far, as in so doing you can con-
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 89

tribute to the pleasures of yourself and your fellows. Vir-
tues, you must remember, in extremes, degenerate into the
most censurable of faults. I feel that I am furgetting myself.
I trust you will generously excuse my rude freedom, by as-
signing, as its motive, a deep and real kindness.”

“‘T cannot censure you, Mr. Alston. I thank you for your
rebuke. I have had many such. If any change of life, at
whatever sacrifice, would contribute to the happiness of a
solitary being, I think T might wish to make it. But to for-
get him, instead of making me happier, would be a crime for
which I could never forgive myself. The consciousness of
such falsity would prove a living curse, and would add to the
misery of all connected with me, rather than contribute to
their pleasure. I hope the subject, sir, may never again be
mentioned. If we live a century, you will find me in heart,
as now. Though years may have destroyed my identity in
every other respect, and age may have withered me into an
appearance which none would suspect of cuntaining a heart
at all.” .

Uuey had scarcely ceased speaking, when they were rejoin-
ed by Laura and her friends, and the whole group proceeded
on their return. The incidents of the day, however, were not
over. Reaching the Horse-rack, they found that Charles’s
steeds had got loose, and had wandered nearer tne river. Hard-
ly had Laura taken her seat in the carriage, than the horses
grew more restive than ever, and backed at a fearful rate to-
wards the precipice. The awful chasm was but a few feet
behind them, and the alarm was painfully intense, when
Dighton’s strong arm arrested the horses, aud by main force
stopped their progress.

“ Again, Mr. Dighton,” spoke Laura, “I am indebted to
you fur a timely rescue from most imminent danger. 1 know
not how to thank you for your gallantry.”

g*
90 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

“T would suffer the fate from which it has been my hap-
piness to rescue you, if so doing would serve you, dear lady,”
whispered Dighton. “You know the reward I would ask.
It is great, immensely great; and my all, which I tender in
return, is utterly inadequate. Yet, when there is no sacrifice,
there is no generosity. Iimplore you, think more mercifully
of ”

“La! brother Charles!” interrupted the provoking crea-
ture, “you have no idea what an eloquent speech Mr. Digh-
ton is making to me! Do come and listen.”

Dighton bit his lips, and smiled as he best could, as Charles
approached.

“ Ah! Dighton,” cried Rattleton, “finished already ? Your
address must have been excellent, with such brevity—the
very ‘soul of wit,’ we are told. What was it all about, sis-
ter ?”

“Oh dear! ask Mr. Dighton; I have no doubt he has it
all by heart! and I’m sure I can’t remember a word of it,”
answered the laughing girl, as the carriage drove on.

“What’s the matter, Dighton ?” asked Charles, when left
alone with him. “ Heart-ache? A self-imposed pain, I assure
you. Atany rate a very poetical pain, so I'll give you a
rhyming prescription, in a couplet from Donne:

 

«I cannot feel the tempest of a frown,
I may be raised by love, but not cast down’

To be sure, she gives you laughs instead of frowns, but it’s all
the same thing, though vou Englishmen would rather be run
through than ridiculed. You would not value a prize that
every one could catch as well as yourself, and catch without
toil. You possess my interest, which I hope is not a little
with my sweet sister. Patience, impetuous sir!”
%,

TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 91

CHAPTER XY.

“Here comes the boy I despatched to the post-office, yes-
terday, for letters,” said Alstun, as they were standing at the
door of the inn, on their third day at Tallulah.

“Letters, my dear Frank! How could you expect letters?”
said Charles.

“Simply because I directed mine to be sent there,” an-
swered Alston.

“ And Lalso,” said Dighton ; “I wish, sir, I had known of
your despatch.”

“Unnecessary, sir,” said Alston. “I have to apologize for
the liberty I took, of including Mr. Dighton, and all our par-
ty, in my message.”

“Tam very much obliged to you, sir,” returned Dighton,
as the boy rode up and deposited a pacquet in Mr, Alston’s
hands. “ Now for something,” said that gentleman, “ to oc-
cupy the time until our farewell visit to the Falls. Mr. Digh-
ton, here are both letters and papers for you. Miss Rattle-
ton, you are not forgotten, and I find here a communication
from England, for myself. Ab!” he whispered to Luc;, as
his eyes ran over the sheet—‘“ from my friend Pembroke!
He lives ; is rector at your paternal residence, Conway, and
married !”

Alston did not design making this announcement so ab-
ruptly, and he turned fearfully to note its effect upon Lucy.
Excepting a countenance of ashy paleness, and a slight tre-
mor, no emotion was perceptible. There was evidently a se-
vere struggle—successful from loug schooling.

“ What, Mr. Dighton, is your news? nothing painful, I
trust ?” asked Charles, as he watched him musing intently
over his letter.

 
92 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

Dighton crushed the sheet in his hand, and pointed to a
paragraph in a number of the “ London Times,” which he
held before him. “This is all. The death of a dear and
valued friend. Read it.”

Charles read—* Diep, last Tuesday, Sir Richard Staugh-
ton, at his residence of Conway Hall, Cumberland. The de-
ceased, we understand, has left the whole of his extensive
estates to his friend and companion, Alfred Dighton, Esq.
Mr. D. is at present in the United States, but is soon expect-
ed to return to take possession of his lordly domains.”

“Sir Richard Staughton, of Conway!” exclaimed Charles,
as he finished the paragraph. ‘The uncle of my cousin
‘Lucy !”

“ How ?” returned Dighton, “your cousin Lucy ?”

“Merely a name, sir. Miss Staughton is the daughter of
Edward Staughton, Esq., brother of the late Sir Richard, and
if [have understood properly, she is the rightful possessor of
the estates of Conway.”

Dighton mused fur some moments, and at Jength returned,
“you have been misinformed. sir. Some reports of the kind,
T have heard, were once rife, but they have long since been
forgotten as idle tales, and from my knowledge of Sir Rich-
ard, I can speak him to have been a man every way worthy
of such a niece as Miss Staughton. I am no less delighted
than surprised, to find my friend’s niece alive, and in the per-
son of Miss Staughton. As an expression of gratitude to Sir
Richard, and a mark of personal regard fur Miss Lucy, I shall
insist upon fullowing the course which I know he himself, if
living, would pursue—that of presenting Miss Staughton with
a claim upon one-half of my friend's muniticent bequest.”

“Noble and generously said !” cried Charles. “ An action
every way worthy of you, my dear sir.”

Alston in words, and Laura, by an approving smile, ex-
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 93

pressed their admiration of Dighton’s magnanimous conduct,
and congratulated Lucy upon ber good fortune.

“TI feel more than grateful to Mr. Dighton for his noble
offer,” said Lucy, “ but I cannot cousent that my uncle’s will
be interpreted in a manner so diff-rent from what he intend-
ed, or that Mr. Dighton’s kindness shall allow him to deprive
himself of so large a portion of what is evidently and wholly
his.”

“True,” answered Charles; “on second thought, Lucy, you
are right, and I know not how I came to expect anything else
of you. You have all you need, and for our sakes I hope
you will never have more.”

“For your sake, my dear friend,” said Lucy, “I could wish
for more. While I refuse this means of relieving you from
the burthen of my support, I must seek some other. I have
often wished, cousin Charles, you would interest yourself in
procuring me some office as governess or teacher.”

“ Yes, often, Luey—far too often. If you ever breathe such
an unwelcome wish again, I shall think you unkind, and com-
ply with it, out of revenge. We all thank you, Mr. Dighton,
but you shall not steal our Lucy’s affections from us. You
must seek another to share your fortunes, and I hope you
may seek successfully ”"—glancing, as he spoke, towards his
sister,

Laura acknowledged his meaning with a conscious blush,
and a short time after took Dighton’s arm, as a matter of
course, when they left the house for their farewell visit to the
Falls.

“ This is to be our last visit to Tallulah for some years,
cousin Luey,” whispered Charles, while Alston returned to the
cabin for her shawl.

“ As you please, cousin Charles,” returned Lucy, in a de-
sponding tone, “I care not whether I ever see it again, or
Ot TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK,

whether I ever leave it. Had I my choice, I would seek a
resting place, at once, within the voice of its waters.”

Alston had returned, and was standing by Lucy’s side as
she spuke, and a smile of pleasure stole over his features as
she ceased, which Charles thought very much out of place.

“ Why do you smile ?” he whispered.‘ In her words and
manner I see a death-blow to your hopes. I see the true-
hearted Lucy ; true as the magnetic needle, and unlike others,
not cursed with its deviations too. I wish you every joy,
Alston; but I confess that your success would be a disap-
pointment to me, in the vanishing of my faultless idéal of
Lucy’s character.

CHAPTER XVI.

Lavra had secretly hoped that every succeeding hour
would have brought Henry Morton to Tallulah, a supplant
at her feet. Ler disappvintment, added to her jealousy, daily
increased by Diyhton’s unremitted hints and calumnies, had
formed in her breast a stuical resolve to banish his memory
at once and forever from ber mind. Diyhton’s own unremit-
ted altentions, his vows of love more than once made, hig
apparently estimable and amiable character, added to a de-
sire of revenge upon Morton,—hail led her to exhibit a tacit
admittance of his claims, which she really did not design,
She bad given him no positive encouragement, yet in general
society her conduct would have led all to consider Dighton
as the favoured suitor, and as such he was regarded by Charles
and all his party. There was, indeed, every prospect of her
yielding her hand, without once thinking of the importance
of the heart accompanying it. Dighton’s late generous con-
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 95

duct towards Lucy had operated mucl: in his favour. Little
did Laura know the secret design that prompted the offer,
and his consciousness of its being refused. Dighton was
aware of his advantages, and resolved to improve them.

Alston seemed in a happy humour, and exerted his powers
so successfully to win Lucy from her pensive and listless bu-
mour, that short as the time appeared when they reached the
Trysting Rock, their friends had long before passed it, on
their way to the bottom of the descent.

“My dear Miss Staughton,” said Alston, as they again sat
in the shade of the favourite spot, “two days ago, in this very
place, Limplored you tu forsake your secluded and even self-
ish life, and perform your part in the world’s drama. I said
that many would rejoice to lay their hearts at your feet, and
make your enjoyment their life’s business. I was earnest and
sincere in my advice, yet very selfish. The marriage of my
friend Arthur bas rendered your further devotion to him not
only idle, but in the eye of the world censurable. Dearest lady !
let one who loves you with a true, an ardent, and an unaltera-
ble affection, fill the place of the lost, and find his best happi-
ness in contributing to yours. I can truly say, that util we
met, never did I love, even in fancy. Here, upon this sacred
spot, I vow eternal devotion, for I feel my heart wholly and
irrevocably yours! Do I pray in vain? Speak, dear lady !
Oh! deny me not !”

Lucy gazed with a wild and suprised air at the speaker.
“Why will you pain me, sir? This is folly! It is cruel and
unworthy of you, knowing as you well do my heart, if indeed
it is not long withered and dead. I beg you will leave me,
sir, instantly! Would you have me break my vows, and ex-
pose myself to your scorn, rather than win your love ?”

“Lucy, dearest Lucy! why did I ever doubt you? You
have triumphed, and nobly! You would indeed otherwise
96 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

have sunk in my esteem. O! forgive me, and pardon my
cruel test of your love, when I throw myself at your feet, your
long lost, yet ever constant Arthur! I knew not, dearest,
until we met at the Springs, that you were living, aud since
then I have enacted a self denial in preserving the incognito
that has so severely tested your constancy, secund only in
merit to your own angelic victory! God be praised, the
hour of trial is passed fur both !”

Alston’s changed voice, and the thousand visions that had
haunted her during their acquaintance, startled her as he
commenced speaking, and so joyful was the blissful surprise
when she heard bis confession, and received from his bosom
her letters and the miniature he bad painted of her, in the
happy days of their early love, that her tongue refused utter-
ance, and she sank insensible in his arms. He called loudly
for aid, and the presence of his friends soon responded to the
alarm. Tis efforts, however, for her recovery, had not been
futile in the meanwhile; and as they appeared, Lucy, with
returning consciousness, looked up in his face with such a
sweet smile of joy and confidence, that the tale was instantly
told.

“T congratulate you, Alston,” said Charles, “ and so Lucy
has at last yielded "—glancing a look of affectionate reproach
at her.

“Nay, dear Charles! she refused—and with indignation,
too—eh ? Lucy—the courted and wealthy Alston; but frank-
ly accepted the adventurer—Pembroke !”

* Arthur Pembroke !” exclaimed all. “Is itso! Are you he?”

“No wonder you are surprised, my friends. Iam indeed
the veritable Arthur. After leaving Lucy, years ago, at the
Trysting Rock, T mourned her as ded. Recently an irresis-
tible wish to revisit this spot again, brought me to Georgia;
and your narrative, Miss Laura, first told me she was living,
TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 97

and that I was still loved. I resolved to test her sincerity
and truth, by a severer ordeal, than even seven long years of
devotion, in the teeth of every apology for forgetfulness. I
even proved her Arthur treacherous, and herself forgotten for
another; yet she has stood every test, and if earthly love
can make one happy, she shall never feel anotber pang !”

“Frank !? said Charles, “you are a happy fellow. I give
you joy with all my heart. Lucy! God and all his angels
bless my dear Lucy! You deserve it all; whatever misfor-
tunes the future has for me, the recollection of this happy hour
will always cure. But, my dear Frank, how did you escape
being recognized, and what of your friend Pembroke ?”

“ During my first acquaintance with Lucy,” replied Alston,
“T was labouring under a severe illness, that very much al-
tered my usual appearance. Since then, years have changed
me in every way. From the moment of our meeting, too, I
have worn a studied air and disguised voice, all of which,
however, seeming to me insufficient, I was induced to resort
to the little artitice of my friend Pembroke; the falsehood,
though, was only in Lucy’s application of the story, all ils
incidents being trae. I have such a friend, and my letter to-
day was from him. Our acquaintance resulted as I related
to you, but it was prior to my first visit to America, at which
time I borrowed his name, and under it won my incompara-
ble Lucy.”

“J offer you my earnest congratulations,” said Dighton, as
Alston finished his tale; “but why should not this spot,
which has been the theatre of so much romance, witness an-
other happy event? My dear Miss Rattleton, you have
laughed at my suit too long. On this day of happy dénoue-
ments, and in the presence of our friends, I entreat you to
banish this cruel levity, and accept the sincere offer of my
hand and for ih

9

 
98 TALLULAH ; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

“Fortune !” interrupted Charles, who had availed himself
of Dighton’s newspaper still in his hand as a screen, to hide
his amusement at that gentleman's address to his sister, but
whose eye had at that moment fallen upon a singularly inter-
esting paragraph—

“Fortune! stop! what is this?” he continued, reading.

“Sreutar Onpir.—It is rumoured that Sir Richard
Stauvhton, on his death-bed, made confessions to his minis-
ter, convicting himself, in connection with his friend Dighton,
of certain frauds relative to the will of old Sir John Staugh-
ton, the uncle of the late Sir Richard, which render his own
title, and that of his successor, untenable and void. The re-
port is very generally credited, but with the precaution that
always characterizes the columns of this paper, we forbear
receiving it, unless upon surer ground than mere public ru-
mour.”

“Who dares ?” cried Dighton, snatching the paper from
Charles’s hand. ‘ Who, of my friends here, places the slight-
est credence on such vile slanders ?” i

“None of your friends, but some unlucky enough to be
your acquaintances,” said a voice from behind, and old Mr.
Morton, with Henry and the sibyl, joined the group.

“What is this ?” cried Dighton surprised. ‘ What mean
your insults, sir?”

“No insult at all, sir. This will explain ;” and here Mr.
Morton read aloud the letter be had received from the Rev.
Mr. Pembroke. ‘‘ What answer, sir, do you make to that?”

“ None, sir, excepting that it is the work of some vile, en-
vious wretch.”

“Permit me, sir, to see the writing,” said Alston, glancing
at the letter. “I can vouch for the truth of the charge.” he
continued, as he recognized the hand of his friend. “It is
from Mr. Pembroke, a man of high repute and unquestioned
TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 99

honour ; moreover, a total stranger to Mr. Dighton. Sir,” he
added, turning sharply to the adventurer, “I imagined you
had forsaken the vile courses that compelled me, some years
ago, to shun your acquaintance, but I find a second farewell
necessary ; please remember, sir, that it must be a final one.”

““What proof have you of your charges? I defy you to
prove any part of them! Not all your falsehoods can invali-
date my claim. Produce the will you speak of!”

All looked inquiringly towards the elder Morton.

“Tt is true!” said that gentleman, “I fear we shall be un-
able to obtain the important document, and in that case shall
find it difficult to restore the property to the rightful heirs.”

At this moment the sibyl stepped forward. “ Villain !”
she cried, “look at me well! You may know me now; we
have met before, and more than once!”

“The sibyl !” exclaimed Dighton, looking intently in her
face, “and the nurse, and—and—old dame Phillips, by hea-
ven !”

“ The same,” replied the dame, presenting a sealed docu-
ment to Mr. Morton. “Iam indeed the nurse of Edward
Staughton’s family. The cabinet is still in my possession,
and hearing you speak of it last night in your conference at
‘Currahee,’ I examined its secret drawers, and discovered this
paper, which I presume is the desired writing. My appear-
ance at Currahee is readily explained. Moving to America,
we finally settled at Tallulah. My husband dying, IJ, for a
time, lost my reason, and wandered until I found myself near
that mountain. A passion for wild and lonely places was a
peculiar mark in my insanity, and I at once took up my
abode there in the character of a fortune-teller. On my re-
covery, having no friends, I resolved to continue my mode
of life, and did so up to the time of our late fortunate meet-
ing. The ingratitude of my son was the great cause of my
100 TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

unhappiness, but I find him still living, and, I think, dis-
posed to amend.”

“ Forgive me, dearest mother! O! forgive,” cried Phil-
lips, springing forward and falling at the nurse’s feet. “Iam
truly indeed another being, but the change is all yours. Why
did I not before recognize you? Who but a fond mother would
have shown the interest in such a villain that you have dis-
played the last few days! My future years shall repay you
for the anguish of the past. Heaven be praised for this hap-
py meeting !”

“Are youindeed my dear nurse ?” said Lucy, as she twined
her arms around the sibyl’s neck. ‘“ How I am to meet you
again !”

“‘Lucy—child ”"—said the bewildered woman—* are you
Lucy Staughton? Oh yes! she és my darling babe!” As
she spoke, her eye rested upon Henry. ‘I can’t understand
it,” she continued. ‘It must be so—it is! Sir,” turning to
the elder Morton, “is this your son—your own son 2”

“Fe is not,” replied Mr. M. “ Why do youask? I know
nothing of his birth. I only know that when a child of some
three or four years of age, I picked him off a wreck, near
New-York, and took him with me to India, where my ship
was then bound. He wears now a miniature which was
around his neck at that time. All T could gather from him
was that he had come from England, and that his name was
Henry. Now, I think of it, too, the picture bears a strong
family resemblance to Miss Staughton.” Lucy drew the
miniature from her bosom, and was eagerly scanning it as
this conversation proceeded. ‘The old nurse, too, had snatch-
ed the picture from Henry’s hand, and was holding him at
arm’s length, intently glancing from him to Lucy, and then
at the miniatures—* Yes ! it is—it is !” she at length scream-
ed. ‘There is happiness in store forme yet! My prayer
TALLULAH; OR THE TRYSTING ROCK. 101

is answered, and my darlings live! It 2s Henry Staughton !”
The assurance was unrequired. The brother and sister felt
themselves such, and acknowledged the relation in a long
and ardent embrace. Oh! who can say—who can tell the
age of unspeakable joy in that one moment of pure and in-
tense bliss !

Dighton was leaving the scene, when Mr. Morton, stopping
him, said, “ Sir, beso kind as to remain. Through the com-
munications of this good woman, whom you would have
bribed to the commission of crime, I have learnt more of you
than you may wish known, and I thought it advisable in a
neighbouring town to procure a warrant for your arrest.
Please inform me of your object, sir, in bribing the nurse to
detain Mr. Henry Staughton upon a sick bed? Do any of
our friends know ?”

At this instant, Henry, taking the hand of Laura, remark-
ed, “ Dear Miss Rattleton, there has been some cruel misun-
derstanding between us. Has that man said aught to my
prejudice ?”

“ Much,” returned Laura. “I see his snares now. Much,
and I was fool enough to credit him. The happy discovery
of the original of the miniature bas proved the baseness of his
first charge, and with it the others, But I will not detail
them now. I have wronged you, Henry, and I frankly con-
fess the error.”

“T thank you, Laura ; but it was cruel to write me as you
did.”

“ Write you? I have never sent you a line !”

“Ah! Then this letter,” handing her Dighton’s forged
reply to his note, “is also his work. You need not now see
mine; you can easily gather its contents from the reply in
your hand, You will not own his note, will you ?” he added,
smiling.

9*
102 TALLULAH } OR THE TRYSTING ROCK.

“Never!” returned the delighted Laura, “you may now
try your own skill as my amanuensis, and write what you
please. I give you carte blanche, dear Henry !”

Never was a more joyous group, and never were more
happy hearts assembled upon one little spot of earth, than
were grouped on that afternoon under the “ Trysting Rock.”

We have but little to add. In the universal joy, Dighton
slipped away unnoticed, and nothing has been heard of him
since the happy dénouement of that day.

A few shoit weeks, after the events narrated, witnessed the
happy bridal of Henry and Laura, and the marriage of Alston
to the constant Lucy. She has become again the same care-
less, light-hearted being she was in early youth ; the idol of
her husband, and the adored friend of all happy in her ac-
quaintance, always blessing the hour that first led her to the
“ Trysting Rock.”

Sir Henry and Lady Staughton have returned to England,
and taken possession of the ancestrat mansion in Conway, to
the bigh delight of the faithful peasantry. Mr. and Mrs.
Alston have established themselves in a pretty villa in their
vicinity, where the hours fly with golden wings, blest as they
are with the frequent society of their friends, and a large cir-
cle of choice and admiring spirits, which their amiability and
worth have drawn around them.

Mrs. Phillips bas returned to the service of her “ darling
Lucy,” while her son continues in that of Sir Henry.

Old Mr. Morton having retired from business, and taken
an especial fondness to Charles, both have removed to Eng-
land, where they pass their time happily among their friends,
with whom and all the country around, they are humourous-
ly known as the old and the young bachelors—soubriquets,
which Lady Laura declares must be washed away, before an
unblemished finish rests upon the trials, joys and surprises of
TALLULAH,
JOCASSEE;

OR, 1 CAPANNETTO.

 

CHAPTER I.
THE LADIES.

“O, dear! how excessively stupid the days are becoming!
If Doctor Quotem were here, he might in his trite borrowed
phrase, most truly say of the season of Charleston life and
pleasure—the guests are fled and the garlands dead,’ or
‘the melancholy days are come. Were it not that this broil-
ing temperature keeps one busy with fanning, one would ab-
solutely expire with the want of something todo. But hea-
ven be praised! there’s a ring! run Lely and answer the bell!
Even Quotem himself, with his scraps and apropos, his gravi-
ties, simplicities and pedantries, will be welcome.”

Thus vawned the beauteous aud gay Margaretta Pearson,
as she vainly assayed an easy disposal of her Medician figure
upon the softest couch in her elegant boudoir. A world of
varying and ravishing attitudes for the painter’s eye, were
displayed in her futile task, until the labour was abandoned
upon the entrance of the expected visitor, who met an eager
welcome.

“Thank you, thank you, Ellen! a thousand thanks for
coming to my rescue. I was upon the very point of expiring
with weariness, You shall have a medal from the humane
104 JOOASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO,

society for your compassion. Ah! what a delightful expres-
sion of generous kind-heartedness in your eye! But, Ellen,
badinage aside, I’m sick of Charleston; have you brought me
orders to repair to the country ?”

“ A question, Margaretta, which interests me no less than
yourself, As you say, everybody has left town, and nothing
remains to amuse us. But a relief is at hand: Papa and
Quotem have just returned, and announce every thing in rea-
diness in our mountain cottage, and in one short week we are
to take possession. So get all your city affairs closed up,
dear, as speedily as possible.”

“Ellen! you are my guardian angel! How I long to be
there! What a charming timé we sball have : mountain air,
birds, flowers—wld: flowers, Ellen !—brooks, water falls !—
O dear! how delightfully rural it will be! I declare I shall
never weary of it !”

“Tf you should do so, Margaretta, there will be an abun-
dance of other resources. Pa says it is a heaven of a spot,
and Quotem described it in an extract of half the fourth book
of Paradise Lost, or at least as much of it as is taken up in
the picture of Eden.”

“Spare me the repetition, Ellen, and give me your other
resources.”

“Well, then; besides embellishing the place most lavishly,
and providing every fitting amusement, such as various mu-
sical instruments, an excellent library, and all the adjuncts of
the merry dance, papa has secured, what I imagine will
please you more than all—plenty of compary.”

“Onla fig for company! I leave more than enough of
that behind me. I assure you that for the coming three
months I desire no flirtation but with sweet Madamoiselle
(she is too lovely to be matronized) Nature. A fig for the
company |” _
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 105

“O you heathen ! When Authur Merriton is a part of it !”

“Authur! is he to be there? Then I vow I will not go!
He bores me to death with his absurd devotion. Were he
as true a lover as he affects, he would long before now have
made voluntary use of the rope, or pistol, or river.”

“A proof of love, Margaretta, which malgré your scorn,
would be little grateful to you. No, no; say what you will,
Mr. Merriton is oftener the theme of thought with you than
your pride and policy would have the world suppose. But if
Authur will not do, what do you think of Quotem, to make
couplets for us ?”

“ Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Ellen, Ellen!
remember the Milton! He will be the death of us. He will
have Goldsmith, Gay, Wordsworth, Virgil. and all the pasto-
ral and rural versifiers, cut up into scraps, to poison every
ripple that breaks, every leaf that rustles, every drop of dew
that gathers, and every sentence which is spoken! The idea
is dreadful !”

“ He is ticketed, however, and we must draw such amuse-
ment as we may, from his peculiarities. He is at least pre-
ferable to an automaton. And now, next on the catalogue,
Margaretta, is my fellow-contemner of sentiment, romance,
and love—the cynical Mr. Heartless.”

“The Lord help us, Ellen! When you and Heartless are
shut up together for three months within the same cage, all
love, and truth, and nature, will be sneered from the earth.
I have myself half a mind to besiege the fellow’s heart (sup-
posing he has one) just for the sake of exposing the empti-
ness of his scepticism in woman’s power.”

“ Ha, ha! Margaretta, such a charge upon the invincible
Mr. Heartless, would indeed be exquisite. Think of the
Achilles on his knees at a female shrine! We will see what
can be done when we get him in a purer atmosphere than
106 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO,

that of this artificial city. But to continue our roll, Marga-
retta, the next in order is Mr. Stephen Shelton, a cavalier for
our friend Neva.”

“O, Shelton, of course,” returned Margaretta. “I fear
that Neva’s pleasure will not be much increased by his pre-
sence, and to tell you the truth, Ellen, entre nous, I dislike
the man exceedingly.”

“You speak fur me also, Margaretta.”

“T speak for all who have seen him as much as I have.
Neva dreads him, despite the veil in which, from respect to
my father, she shrouds her real feelings. I often wonder why
father should be so bent upon a match between them. I
sometimes think he is demanding too much of her gentle and
grateful nature.”

“Were Neva Cameron, Ellen Vere,” said the other lady,
“she would very speedily silence such unwelcome preten-
sions, for though I see little truth in a lover’s dream of hap-
piness, I can descry a deluge of horror in a life-bondage to
one whom you only detest. The fancied love of dreaming,
credulous souls,.is uncertain enough, but spare one the abso-
lute certainty of wedded misery. As Quotem would say in
this place, turning over in his mind a page of ‘ King Henry,,—

-* What is wedlock forced but a hell,
An age of discord and continual strife’

The verses, Margaretta, are terribly veracious ; ha, ha! more
than can be said, I fancy, of the poet’s following and re-
versed couplet :

‘ Whereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss,

And is a pattern of celestial peace.’
That, Margaretta, I consider one of the ‘may-bees’ which, as
the school-boys sceptically have it, ‘don’t fly at all seasons
of the year.’”

“T declare, Ellen, you will shame Heartless, himself, in
JOCASSEE OR IL CAPANNETTO. 107

your sentiments, and Quotem in the manner of expressing
them. But to return to Neva,—I have no doubt she views
a constrained marriage in a more repulsive light than your-
self. But if you know her well, you know also how widely
remote her live of conduct would be from yours. She holds
herself bound to my father in the most sacred debts of honour,
gratitude and obedience—ties, in her estimate, every way
paramount to ber individual pleasure. Talking, however,
will not mend the matter ; so, once more, Ellen, to your list.”

“ Last, then, among the gentles, comes your conquest-elect
—Henry Hautleroy. He is every week expected to arrive from
Germany—earlier than he had at first designed, for no other
purpose than to aid us in passing away these coming sum-
mer months at our little cottage.”

Margaretta’s face brightened at this item of the rural
corps. Henry Hautleroy was the son of one of her father’s
intimate friends. He was heir to an immense fortune, and
report said he was also an Adonis and an Apollo, in personal
appearance, and the seven savans of Greece, united, in intel-
lect. As such, Margaretta and her companions remembered
him in his early boyhood, for since that period they had no
seen him, he having spent the intervening period first at a
distant boarding-school, and afterwards at the universities of
Germany. When he was last under the parental roof, Mar-
garetta Pearson was only in her seventh year, but then she
was his favourite play-mate, and he was accustomed in boy-
ish style to call her his “ little wife,” and from that period to
the present she had kept up a platonic correspondence with
him. The probability was thus very great (supposing, of
course, the proper tone of Margaretta’s letters,) that when
Hautleroy returned, it would be with—to say the least—a
decidedly favourable feeling towards his old playmate. Mar-
garetta did make such inferences from such rational premi-
108 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

ses. She had, in its deepest force, the usual woman’s thirst
for wealth, or the passion for the station and homage at
wealth’s command. Under the sway of this feeling, she did
violence to some latent holier emotions, in her scornful slight
of the sincere addresses of Mr. Authur Merriton. In short,
Miss Margaretta Pearson very prudently turned Mr. Henry
Hautleroy around in all possible lights, and in every attitude
he shone most brillianuy. In like position, fair reader, what
kind sacrifices would you have contemplated for Mr. Henry
Hautleroy’s worldly felicity? Just what you would have
resolved upon, did the politic Miss Pearson.

“ Margaretta,” said Ellen, after pausing a moment for a
reply to her news of Mr. Hautleroy, “ you certainly do not
object to your old playmate’s company? Why it was only
last week that Madame Salvo sagely predicted, that at your
feet would bow a youth of manly grace, rich and learned,
native born but foreign bred. Whom, except Henry Hautle-
roy, could have been perched upon the tip of her divining
wand {”

“T only hope his arrival will be early,” replied Miss Pear-
son, endeavouring to hide the deeper interest which possessed
her heart; “with Heartless, Quotem, Shelton, and Merriton,
we shall require the fullest strength of his best powers to
render our family gatherings endurable. But, Ellen, you
have not yet told me what ladies your father has invited 2?”

“ First, Margaretta, you are to assist me in duing the ‘ plea-
sing’ at our cottage ; next is your companion, Neva Came-
ron; then the good-humoured, little Martha Woodlelte—be-
sides my mother, the younger children, and other supernu-
meraries. Apropos of Neva——where is she ?”’

“She has gone up King-street to purchase some bracelets,
but I every minute expect her return. She will be enchant-
ed with the prospect of our summer tour. Nothing possesses
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 109

the charm for Neva, that wild nature presents with all its
wealth of loveliness and quiet. Herself a true child of na-
ture, she holds with hills and vales a sisterly intercourse. I
am glad, too, Ellen, that Martha Woodlette is to go, if only
to provide a keeper for Dr. Quotem. Kind heart! she listens
to all his pedantries as though he were an oracle from the
skies. We need such a benevolent old soul to keep in check
the quarrelsome spirits which will be there assen bled. But
hark—there goes the bell again !”

“Oh! is it you, Neva!” exclaimed the two ladies, as the
new arrival entered. “ All is ready, Neva! the cottage is
prepared, and next week we are to start for the mountains !”

“Yes!” answered Miss Cameron, in a tone of delight, “I
have just seen your father, Ellen, and he told meall about it !
He says it is the loveliest spot in all the upland of Carolina ;
that not only has nature surpassed herself, but that he has
added every possible aid of art in the perfection of her beauty.
How wise, Ellen, it is in Mr. Vere to select a summering
place among the unequalled charms of our own home, before
the wearying and unsatisfactory travel to the Northern
States. ‘lo me, such a selection appears far more patriotic
and rational, than plunging, after our winter gaieties, into the
still deeper dissipations which follow the passage of the sum-
mer inthe Atlantic cities. After the quiet and repose of the
one, we return home invigorated in body and in mind, and
softened in heart; from the other, we reap only increased
weariness and selfishness. Truly it is high time Southerners
began to appreciate the resources in nature, of their own
sunny and fruitful land. But,” added the speaker, suddenly
varying the theme, as her eye fell upon the small pacquet in
her land, “I have not shown you my purchase!” and she
displayed to the interested gaze of her friends, a pair of
bracelets, rich in workmanship, though very antique in style.

10
110 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

“What outlandish looking things, Neva!” cried Miss
Pearson. “Did Hayden & Gregg sell you such unfashion-
able stuff as that ?”

“TI vow,” added Ellen Vere, “ Neva Cameron is growing
penurious and purchasing refuse jewelry !”

“You are both in the wrong,” returned Neva. “ Hayden
& Co. had articles much more beautiful and less costly, but
these poor despised things accidentally caught my eye, in a
case of similar matters in the window of an obscure shop.
Their olden-time appearance suited my fancy, to say nothing
of certain very strange reminiscences which they instantly
awakened, and the more I looked upon them, increased ; as-
sociations, too vague to be explained, of my early childhood.
At moments I half faney I have seen them before, upon the
wrist of one I loved, and who caressed me in my infancy, and
the very next thought is of my mother—a mother whom I
never knew, at least scarcely to remember.” Here the speak-
er caught the unsympathizing looks of her auditors, and ab-
ruptly paused. She forbore to relate her encounter in the
goldsmith’s shop with a woman of advanced age, whom she
had before then observed to watch her countenance narrow-
ly, upon more than one occasion of their street encounters.
At this moment the curiosity of the stranger had seemed in
no whit abated, and when the bracelet which Neva was se-
curing upon her arm caught her eye, she no longer indulged
her glances furtively, but abruptly approaching Neva, she
looked first at the bracelets with an air of most singular in-
terest, and then abruptly demanded her name. Neva, al-
though greatly surprised, had replied to her question, when
the woman, half addressing her and half in soliloquy, said,
“Poor child, and have we met at last, and these bracelets—
how came they here ?” and then banishing her air of abstrac-
tion, she added, pointing to the jewels, “ Buy them, my dear,
they are invaluable. You will not regret the bargain.”
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 111

 

“Meet me to-morrow evening at .” she continued,
perceiving that Neva was about expressing her curiosity ;
“meet me then and there, and we shall become better ac-
quainted.” Waiting only for Neva’s promise, she had left
the shop without further parley.

This incident, we said, Neva did not narrate to her friends ;
indeed she could not have done so, for at the point at which
our relation of it began, a new arrival arrested the general
attention.

“ Wark !” said Margaretta, “The bell again—I wonder
whom we are to have now 2”

And to the wonder of the ladies, kind reader, you must
add your own, until a new chapter enables us to admit the
visitor.

CHAPTER II.
THE GENTLEMEN.

“T rar, ladies,” said Mr. Authur Merriton, entering and
gracefully saluting the trio—* I fear, from the evident interest
of your discourse, that I am de trop.”

“Not more so than usual,” answered Margaretta, with that
coquettish rudeness which beauty, wit, and wealth, alone ex-
cuse. ;

“ Thank you,” said he, fervently seizing her hand and kiss-
ing it with great empressement, while he affected a total mis-
apprehension of the irony in her welcome. “Thank you!
my dear Miss Pearson. Your general greeting for a stand-
ard, I have nothing to desire in the cordiality of my recep-
tion.”
112 JOCASSEE 5 OR IL CAPANNETTO.

“Your visit,” interrupted the other ladies, “could not have
been more apropos, since we are canvassing our projected
country life.” /

“The very subject upon which I came to chat,” replied
Merriton. “I knew that Miss Pearson would be dying to
hear my views.”

“ The precise condition to which your views and your pre-
sence usually reduce her,” said the scornful belle.

“Again, my best thanks!” responded Meriton, with im-
perturbable good humour, and secret gratification in teasing
the lady, whose displeasure he believed more affected than
real. “I knew that my influence with you was not slight,
but I am delighted to find it so extremely effective.” -

“But when, Mr. Merriton, do you join us at ‘11 Capannet-
to? ” said the other ladies, eager to stop the war of words
which they anticipated between their Katharine and her Pe-
truchio.

“Il Capannetto 2” he returned inquiringly.

“Yes; that is the baptismal of our summer cottage, sug-
gested by Doctor Quotem. Is it not sweet, and so charac-
teristic, with its gentle and quiet associations ?”

“OQ! delicious to those who understand it; and character-
istic of quiet, and so on, most certainly, since the taciturn
Miss Pearson is one of the fixtures.”

“And since,” rejoined Margaretta, “Mr. Authur Merriton,
the bashful, will be there to save our ears the discordant
noises of the rippling brook and the falling stream.”

“ Again my acknowledgments, Miss Pearson ; what absorb-
ing attention you pledge to each whisper of my lips, since
the voice of nature is to be drowned in its sweetness. The
expressive comparison for so modest a person as myself, is
too flattering !”

“Mr, Authur Merriton was always unassuming !”
JOCASSEE 5 OR IL CAPANNETTO. 113

“And never was a better judge of that quality than Miss
Pearson !”

“Tn the words of Shakespeare, ‘’tis the witness still of ex-
cellence to put a strange face upon its own perfection,’ ” add-
ed a new voice.

“Quotem! as I live, for that’s his card,” cried Merriton;
and turning around, that gentleman was discovered to have
just joined the group.

“T give you good day, ‘ladies fair and gentles all,’ as the
old salutation runs,” said the new comer. “I dropped in to
chat about this intended summering of ours. When, pray,
as the couplet goes, are we

‘To leave this suffocating lair,
For the mountain’s balmy air?”

“ As the bard elegantly expresses it,” added yet another

voice, in a sneering tone—
“Tn the course of a week or so—
Good Doctor Quotem, we hope for to go!”

The company now welcomed Mr. Heartless, whose ring,
like that of Quotem, had not reached the drawing-room.
“But, my dear fellow!” he continued, still addressing Quo-
tem, “ before you start, do, for heaven’s sake, cut your cursed
proverbs and scraps, your ‘as says so and so, in the play.’
Why! my life against the trifle of a lady’s heart, that when
your post-mortem comes on, your tongue will be found a
conglomerated paste of leaves from Chaucer, Shakespeare,
Spencer, Byron, and the Lord knows who, from Hesiod down
to the latest crazy rhymer.” :

The offended Doctor Quotem was gravely commencing a
defence of his character, with “Mr. Heartless, I beg to say
that your discourteous remarks are, as Tacitus has it ey
when he was interrupted by Ellen Vere, who, at Heartless’s
libellous wager, eagerly took up weapons in defence of her

10*

 
114 JOOASSEE ; OR IL OAPANNETTO,

sex, as with him she was always ready todo. “You certain-
hy, sir, have not the assurance to claim the heart as more
properly the possession of your sex than of ours 2”

“ Indubitably and unequivocally,” rejoined Heartless. “In
our vernacular the gender of the thing is left neuter. The
gallantry of the founders of our tongue forbade their giving
the word to us, and their conscience prevented its bestowal
upon you. The Frenchman was, despite his politesse, which
none will question, more regardful of the truth, and not only
denied it to your sex, but was honest enough to award it to
ours, As my learned friend, Quotem, will tell you, since he
is a polyglot dictionary as well as a library of select poets
and prose authors—in the French, the substantive is, in gen-
der masculine.”

“Yes ;” audibly muttered Quotem, following in his mind
the suggestion. “Yes; it is so! in the English—heart—
neuter: in the French—ceur—masculine: rule—all ‘nouns
ending in eur, as fureur, fury, etc., femenine, excepting cewr,
heart, and some others.”

“ And,” continued Heartless, “in the Italian, we find equal
truth ; there, also, the word belongs to the masculine cata-
logue.”

“True, again!” muttered Quotem. “ Italian—cuore, heart
—masculine : rule—substantives

“Doctor Quotem !” interrupted the ladies deprecatingly,
“how ungallant !”

“ But strictly true, for all that,” said the doctor gravely ;
“and, as the Latin line runs, ‘ magna est viritas et preva-
lébit.”

“ But,” said Neva, now coming to the aid of the discomfitted
Ellen, “though your position, Mr. Heartless, is very ingenious-
ly maintained, you cannot conquer with such gay badiuage,
resting only upon the accident of language. All language, you

 
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 115

must remember, is arbitrary, and arbitrary things are very apt
to be despotic and unjust, both denying and usurping the rights
of others! Can you make a syllogism, Mr. Heartless ?”

“Tf [ should put the question so, Miss Cameron, the ‘ergo’
would be fatal to me. I must resign the field to you,” he
continued, bowing most complimentarily, and evidently with
a desire of ending the quarrel, either from weariness, or that
he required some less gentle temper than Neva’s to strike
the flint of his wit. At the same moment he seized a pass-
ing opportunity of effecting his wish, as detecting the passing
forms in the street below, of Miss Woodlette and Mr. Shel-
ton, he flew to the window and motioned them to drop in.

When they entered, the coterie-elect (saving only the pre-
sence of Mr. Hautleroy,) was complete.

The new comers were apprised of the prospect of speedy
departure from the city, and upon that approaching event,
the converse now strictly ran. It was soon settled that the
ladies present, were, the fullowing week, to accompany Mr.
Vere’s family to “ 1] Capannetto,” or “the little cottage,”
and the gentlemen, after waiting a limited time for the ex-
pected arrival of Henry Hautleroy, were to follow.

“ Now then,” said Heartless, when all provisions were fully
made, “now that the ‘iron gate’ of the ‘happy valley’ is to
close upon us, for some months at least, who can picture to
us the appearance and capacities of the place?”

“Doctor Quotem has just returned from Eldorado!” cried
the ladies.

“ Well, then, Quotem, I know you to bea Fénélon at the
Calypso business, so pile up the poetry and give us a full
length of ‘I] Capannetto.’ I feel awfully-sentimental already.
Yonder I see the bank of thyme, and smell the violets, and
there, too, sleeps Titania.”

“To do justice,” answered Quotem, “to the lovely spot
116 JOOASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

selected by Mr. Vere, for the summer abode of his family
and chosen friends, is impossible, and as I shall not attempt
so much, if I fall short, ladies and gentlemen, I must excuse
myself by reminding you of the lines of Pope—

‘In every work regard the author’s end ;

Since none can compass more than they intend ;

And if the means be just, the conduct true,

Applause in spite of trivial faults is due.”

“Ol hang Pope, my good doctor,” cried Heartless, “ and
fill up your canvass.”

“Tl Capannetto,” continued the limner, “is a small cot
tage, built in the most faultless taste, and the most pictu-”
resque style, in the bosom of a gentle valley. This vale of
Jocassee is a perfect Thessaly.”

“Indeed!” interrupted Heartless, with grave earnestness,
“a Thessaly? pray is the briar-bush still standing, into which
the enthusiast of nature plunged, much to the detriment of
his visual organs !”

“ Jocassee,” continued Quotem, not deigning a reply to the
irreverent query, “is several miles in length, and full one
mile in breadth; Jength-wise through the centre, steal the rip-
ples of the most charming and pellucid of streams, by whose
mirror-like bosom the Indian maiden has often arranged her
artless toilet. In one place the river is spanned by a slight
and graceful bridge, and at all, its waters are overhung with
the most luxuriant vines and shrubs. The bay, the ivy, and
the laurel dwell there in the most lover-like embrace. The
surface of the valley is diversified by open lawn and shadowy
copse ; intricate wood-land and cultivated field ; and environ-
ing the cottage itself, is a lovely garden of flowrets, both na-
tive and exotic, to win the experienced love of an Eve. The
entire valley, excepting only at its southern approach, is seclud-
ed from the outward world, by a kingly amphitheatre of im-
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 117

movable hills, wearing their ‘green coronal of leaves’ in lofty
majesty and beauty. As says the philosophic Bryant, in his
charming hymn, ‘ grandeur, strength, and grace, are here.’”

Thus in glowing and just colours, Quotem long continued
to paint the attractions of the sweet valley, with its vicinage
of aspiring peak and wild cascade. Even the incipient twist
in the lip of Heartless, vanished, with his sympathy in the
general pleasure, and the allusion to the author of ‘* Thana-
topsis”” was forgiven. With only an occasional repartee be-
tween Heartless, Ellen Vere, and Miss Pearson, the most
enviable unanimity prevailed. They at length separated,
each with a bope of speedy retinion in “Il Capannetto,” or,
as Doctor Quotem proverbially said, “ We will, as the ghost-
ly Cesar speaks, ‘ meet at Phillipi? ”

CHAPTER III.
THE TRYST.

Ar the appointed time, the heroine of Neva’s rencontre in
the goldsmith’s shop, awaited her at the selected tryst. As
Miss Cameron had not yet arrived, she indulged in half
spoken reveries, while nervously pacing the ground.

“She said her name was Cameron, and at our previous
meetings I have thought as much. I cannot be mistaken in
her identity! and yet I may be so! I’ll soon satisfy myself
on that head. The result, though, of my inquiries to-day is
very satisfactory. Ard she is not only alive, but in the fami-
ly of Pearson, above all others! Well; it is no new sin on
his part, for he has treated her kindly. They say, though,
that he wishes to marry her against her will! This must be
118 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO,

looked to, for if true, he acts not without an end, and a deep
one. But she has been wronged enough, already, and the
poor child shall have a will of her own in the business ; her
will shall be mine, and mine shall be his! Yes! I poor and
humble, say that the now great and wealthy Pearson shall
not wed his adopted daughter (for so it seems he calls her)
against her love !”

Her further soliloquy was interrupted by the hesitating,
yet curious approach, of Neva Cameron.

“Tthank you for your confidence, my child,” said the
woman, kindly greeting her.

‘““T fear, madam,” answered Neva, “that I am both silly
and wrong in granting you this meeting, but a something of
seriousness in your manner yesterday, has irresistibly attract-
ed me. I hope you are not jesting with me? Be quick in
your communication, for I must not be long absent.”

“I meet you, poor child, only for your good, and the love
of other days.”

“* Other days,’ madam! What can there ever have been
between us? Surely you cannot know the forgotten scenes
of my infancy 2?”

“TIfI do, my design is not to recall them; and I know
not, indeed, that the revelation will ever be made or required.
I only wish to satisfy myself that you are the person I think
you, and if your life is a happy one.”

“Who is it that is so singular and abrupt in her interest
in me ?”

“Call me friend,” replied the woman with gravity. “ Call
me friend; you will find it a very proper name. You are
an orphan, Miss Cameron 2”

“ Alas

“ And you remember not when you became so %”

“ Not even vaguely.”
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 119

“ And as far as your memory serves, you ”

“Have been an inmate in the family of my kind benefac-
tor and second parent, Mr. Pearson.”

“ Ah! ‘your kind friend,’ you say ?”

“Most certainly.”

“And you have received only treatment worthy of grati-
tude from your friend ?”

“Nothing less. I owe him all the love and duty of a
child.”

“Tt is well,” said the woman to herself, “ but I could alter
the balance sheets in your favour ;” and again speaking dis-
tinctly to Neva—* yet I am told that your kind benefactor
desires to wed you with a man you despise.”

““ Madam !”

“Save your anger, my child. I speak for your good.”

“And if you do, madam, I thank you; but when I desire
your interference between my guardian, and Mr. Shelton and
myself, I will ask it.”

“Shelton !”

“Certainly ; I thought you spoke of the addresses of Mr.
Stephen Shelton.”

“ God of heaven!” exclaimed the woman, for a moment
seeming to dream. ‘Is it ! No! it cannot be! What
an absurd idea! Miss Cameron, pardon my emotion—an
inexplicable thought was awakened by your words; an idea
foolish as its brevity. Your communications render the ob-
ject of my desiring this interview unnecessary. Your family,
I learn, are to pass the summer in the country. We may
meet again, unexpectedly: until then, God be with you!”
and Neva was left alone, with the world of curious inquiries
upon her lips, unasked.

Her first impulse was, naturally, to follow the stranger ; but
the darkness of evening was already gathering, and in the

 

 
120 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

uncertain light which remained, her keenest glance failed to
descry aught of her retreating form in any of the avenues
through which she might have fled. Forsome moments the
perplexed maiden stood in wrapt but undefined revery. She
taxed her memory for plausible elucidations of the evening’s
occurrencz; for that it was not all baseless, the woman’s
earnest manner, and some inward whisperings of her own
breast, satisfactorily assured her. To give these reminiscences
of her infant years such local habitation and vame as would
enable her tu use them as a key to the present singular laby-
rinth, was now her study, but the Ariadne of memory did
not grant the desired clue, and her speculations resulting in
nothing, she at length resolved to banish all remembrance of
the adventure from her thoughts, and with a quick step hast-
ened homeward.

We must now fly to other scenes and personages; and,
first among them, drop in upon Mr. Henry Hautleroy. In
the mean time, Neva and her associate ruralizers will journey
to the hills, and we will next greet them under the hospita-
ble roof of “ I] Capannetto.”

CHAPTER IV.
HENRY HAUTLEROY.

Ar the very moment the incidents in our previous chapters
were transpiring, there sat, with meditative air, in an apart-
ment of one of the most fashionable hotels of the old city of
Manhattan, a youth of apparently some twenty and two sum-
mers. His appearance was all that properly belongs to that
sunny period of life; a figure of full and most graceful pro-
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 121

portions, in which were detected, in happy unison, the elas-
ticity and grace of youth and the graver dignity of maturer
years. There was in his face an expression of much thought
and gravity, but it was not the cold, stoical air of the misan-
thrope or the ascetic. Besides, it was pleasantly relieved by
a winning look of benevolence, and, at moments, a slight tinge
of a still gayer mood. His whole expression was one of
those which one instinctively and de prime ubord regards with
interest, and an involuntary sympathy.

As we said, at the moment of our intrusion, he seemed
wrapt in deep speculation, as he sat before a small escrutoire
covered with a confused pile of letters, evidently, from the
delicacy and diminutiveness of the characters, in a lady’s
hand. These billet doux were inscribed to “ Mr. Henry
Hautleroy,” none other than the gentleman who was at this
moment perusing them with such deep interest.

The letters, excepting the one in his hand, were addressed
to him at his late abode in Europe. This one, his fair corres-
pondent, Miss Margaretia Pearson, had penned to greet him
on his re-landing in America. Twirling the missive musing-
ly in his fingers, his thoughts ran much in this wise :

“T remember her in her childhood, as though it were but
yesterday that we united in our infantine sports. Her memo-
ry, as she then was, is distinctly before me ; one, indeed, of
those striking and lovely pictures whose tracery never wholly
leaves the heart. I well remember, at that period, the boy-
ish yearning for riper years, that I might call her in earnest
by the sweet title which she then accepted from me in sport.
Intercourse with the cold and changeful world has blown
away many of my childish dreams, but this, even to the pre-
sent moment, if I do not deceive myself, wears yet its original
hues, It may be a fancy which one short glance at the
change which time must have worked in her, as well as in

11
122 JOOASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

others, may dissipate. As in childhood the most trifling
sports occupy our whole minds, as gravely as the destiny of
states the riper intellect, so, also, small and insignificant ob-
jects and feelings fill the heart and the eye; and when in
after years, we glance backward upon the love we felt for our
marbles, our hoops and toys—when we revisit the natural
scenes of our infancy, the castle-house in which we were
born, and the giant tree under whose shade we sported, we
are astonished at their present apparent insignificance. Our
toys seem idle, our castle-house, the smallest and most com~
mon-place of huts, and our colossal oak, a poor stunted dwarf.
The actual presence of these boyishly miscroscoped objects is
necessary to strip them of their delusive garb. Years will
not do it, while they are, meanwhile, wrapt in the poetizing
veil of absence and memory ; for we wilfully refuse to reason
from analogy, and most tenaciously adhere, while we may,
to these pleasing estimates of youth.

“ Thus, alas, it may prove with me, when my long cherish-
ed hope of re-visiting the home of my early years is realized.
But supposing that it will not be so—how stands it with
Margaretta? Her letters, most surely, from that hour to
this, have afforded sufficient grounds to believe her now, as-
then. IfIcan read a woman’s heart, and pen and paper
bear true tracery, her remembrance of me is purer and deeper
at this moment than when we parted. In these tell-tale
sheets are hidden warmer feelings than the platonic love,
which we then (ah! silly creatures that we were) promised
to cherish. For myself, I can scarcely speak, not knowing
fully my own heart; but my sweet Margaretta, I shrewdly
think, has proved this platonic agreement to be what it usu-
ally is—a web of that arch-spider Cupid,—and she is the de-
luded insect to whom the snarer, with his thumb upon his
nose, is triumphantly and tauntingly singing, as in the song:
JOOASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO. 123

‘Now will you, will you, will you, wil? you—
Walk out Mistress Fly !’ ;
She has learnt, with the poet, that sometimes
‘Love under Friendship’s vesture white,
Laughs ; his little limbs concealing ?

“Yes, yes; this poetic corresponding for years, without the
prose of a meeting, with a fair creature whom you have only
seen, and will remember, as she was in the pure, innocent,
and unsophisticated nature of girlhood, is very dangerous
business. Something must and will come of it, and sly Cu-
pid chuckles thus to ensnare his victim. In the first place,
even if the writers be true, only the poetry of their characters
is displayed, stript of all the common-places which in a per-
sonal intercourse would appear, and perhaps prove a whole-
some check to credulous love. Then, again, if the writers’
motives be insincere, how wide a field for deception. With
what impunity may the serpent-pen ensnare its victim. Of
this falsity, however, I have never, wilfully, been guilty, and
that Margaretta has wielded the insidious quill, is impossible ;
yet let me see,—in childhood, was it not pride, more than
any other feeling, which prompted her to seek a monopoly of
the companionship of the pretty and rich littie Henry Hau-
tleroy? She was even at that time terribly proud. Aye,
aye, but older years have, doubtless, corrected that fault, for
a tone of sincere and deepening affection pervades all her let-
ters. If this love is true, and founded upon grounds which I
may have, inadvertently, given in my own share of the cor-
respondence, she shall, though she may not realize my early
recollections, have the refusal of this poor heart and hand.

“But if the letters are masked, may she not also possess
the power of making her conduct so? [ must—let me think
—from this letter, she is to pass the summer months with
some friends in the country, and I am urged to make one of
124 JOCASSEE $ OR IL CAPANNETTO.

the party at ‘Il Capannetto,’ (a name, by the way, in good
keeping with my fair correspondent’s letters.) Ellen Vere,
my old playmate, is to be there, and she writes, ‘a sweet
creature ’—what’s her name ?—ah, ‘ Neva Cameron,’ besides
others. I must go!” and then, as a sudden thought struck
him, while he scattered the letters about the floor, with the
vigour of his hand-fall upon the table, “I must go! By the
powers of love—no you don’t, Cupid, dear! Ihave it! I
have it! and, as that fellow, Quotem, of whom she writes so
amusingly, would express my idea, drawing upon Mr, Ham-
let,—

‘The play—the play's the thing,

Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king !

“Yes! with my play, I'll catch the conscience of my love,
and if successfully, to better purpose than did the Danish
coward.”

At this moment, the reveries of our hero were suddenly
ended by the entrance of a servant, with the card of a visitor.

* Ab,” said he to himself, “ Carrolton ; his odd affair may
keep me some time from I] Capannetto ;” and then address-
ing the servant—* show him up—show him up stairs at
once.”

CHAPTER V.
THE VISITOR.

We must keep the visitor in the vestibule, while we nar-
rate, in as few words as may be, the incidents which intro-
duced him to our hero’s acquaintance.

In his return from the coutinent, Mr. Hautleroy made a
descent upon the garden lands of England, rambling with
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 125

infinite pleasure among the numerous scenes of classic and
historic remembrance, and visiting, with a curious eye, all the
public institutions, of whatever nature. Among other things,
he rambled through the dreary cells of many of those melan-
choly structures, habited by the poor wretches in whom the
god-like lamp of reason had been extinguished ; his philo-
sophic mind deeply interested in the diverse characters of
human madness.

It was in one of these institutions in a remote shire, that
he encountered a man, whose condition quickly awakened in
his heart more than usualinterest. He seemed depressed by
the incubus of a deep melancholy and a sullen despair, and
for some time all Hautleroy’s efforts failed to awaken his at-
tention,

“Tle is,” said the attendant, “ one of those frequent cases
who fancy themselves sane, and with every show of reason
persist in denying their madness.”

At these words the wretch looked up, and seeming to read
an air of sympathy in the heart of the visitor, aroused himself’
from his lethargy, and gazed earnestly in his face. Hautle-
roy was deeply struck with the look of profound and rational
grief, and continued, in a kind tone, to address him.

The prisoner, observing that the attention of the keeper was
called off, motioned the visitor to an adjoining recess, where,
strictly concealed from observation, he spoke in an eager yet
hopeless tone—

“Q! sir, for the love of heaven! if you have one particle of
kindness, of human compassion, of justice, listen to the tale,
the pitiable tale of an unfortunate wretch. O! listen, and
do not believe it, as éhey would tell you, only the ravings of
a madman !”

“Speak on, sir,” answered Hautleroy, his belief in the

11*
126 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

man’s imbecility more and more shaken. “Speak, and what
TI can do for you, I will.”

‘“O, sir,” was the reply, in tones of most earnest gratitude,
“may a merciful heaven bless and reward you! I must be
brief, or those cruel men will send you away, and this only
ray of hope which has for years lighted my cell, will be dark-
ened.”

“Fear nothing, sir,” answered Hautleroy, “ but be as brief
as possible with your story.”

“ He, he,” continued the prisoner, pointing to the attend-
ant, “‘is not my keeper. Mine must be ill to-day, for he sel-
dom is absent, and watches me with a closeness which proves
that, from some inscrutable cause, my detention here is vio-
lent and malicious. This man is not so harsh; on the con-
trary, so kind, that at times I have hoped to gain his heart
and effect my liberty. He is an honest fellow, and acts only
from duty.”

“But to your tale, sir,” interrupted Hautleroy, with impa-
tient curiosity. ‘“ How came you here, and why, if you are
sane, as I believe, are you detained 2”

“ Your first question, sir, I think I can answer, but the
other is a dark mystery to me. I am now, sir, as you see,
an old man, and such I have become within these walls. My
last recollections of liberty are with the hey-day of my youth.
I am, sir, an American.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Hautleroy, “my countryman !”

“Thank God, then,” cried the man joyfully. “I am then
safe! and my history shall soon be said. While very young,
reckless, and dissipated, I came on a visit to this country,
bringing with me a young wife and a child some three years
old. Isoon fell in with a young countryman—a desperate
villain, who quickly completed the ruin which my wild habits
JOCASSEE} OR IL CAPANNETTO, 127

had already far accomplished. Her heart broken by my
cruel conduct and neglect, I soon after laid my lovely wife in
her grave. This dreadful blow, for a while, made me pause
upon the infernal abyss I was approaching ; but the serpent
soon again wound me in his meshes, and was now aided by
another. This second person, however, was more his weak
tool than depraved accomplice.

“ Folly succeeded fully, and even objectless crime, until one
fatal day, in a violent quarrel between my associates and my-
self, the younger of the two miscreants, as I well remember,
aimed a dagger at my heart. Of my life from that moment,
until within a year past,.as you shall hear, I recollect nothing.
I suppose, from scars now upon my person, that I was badly
wounded, and that violent illness was followed by insanity.
That must have been fifteen years ago, at least, and my loss
of reason continued until a year since, at which time I first
became conscious of my situation. Judge of my despair
when I found all my protestations of recovered health discred-
ited, either from ignorance or from some villainous design.”

At this moment the keeper approached, and Hautleroy
pledging his influence for the prisoner’s release, took his leave
of the asylum, meditating the best means of assisting the un-
fortunate man.

Tf detained from unlawful cause, he felt that it would be in
vain to apply to the keeper, or rather the acting keeper, for
the man under whose special charge the prisoner was, though
not the director himself, was nevertheless the law-giver of the
establishment. He felt that, to prove his sanity, would be a
long and uncertain effort, and that, on the contrary, any ef-
fort of the kind might result in harsher treatment of the
victim. His final determination was to attempt his rclease
through the benevolence, or justice, or cupidity of the attend-
128 JOOASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

ant, under whose charge he had found him. We shall not
detail the means by which he finally accomplished this pur-
pose.

After the rescue of his new friend, Hautleroy learned from
him the further particulars, that though from America, he
never had many acquaintances there, having, when a child,
accompanied his father to the West Indies, where, after ac-
cumulating a large fortune, this parent died. With his young
wife and infant child he soon after removed to Boston. There
he lived in riotous dissipation for a short time, and then made
the visit to England which resulted so fatally. So much had
his mind and body been weakened by his long sickness, that
he strove in vain to remember even the names of his vicious
associates. Thus he was unable to learn anything of them ;
and his child, he little doubted, had soon followed its mother
to a brighter and better land. He accepted Hautleroy’s in-
vitation to accompany him to his native home, and after the
voyage he bent his steps to Boston, in the hopeless errand,—
as both Hautleroy and himself believed it—of gaining some
intelligence of his child and fortune.

It was upon his return from this visit, that the unfortunate
Mr. Carrolton now asked an audience of his friend.

“Welcome back, my good sir—weleome back
Hautleroy, as the gentleman entered, “with good news, I
hope—but yet I fear.” :

“ Ah, my dear young friend, my news, for news I have, is
but bad.”

“Then let it go for the present, my dear sir; it will, at
latest, be soon enough spoken.”

“Tam not so great a stranger to grief,” answered Mr. Car-
rolton, with a sad smile, “as to be frightened by a slight dis-
appointment. You shall hear, at once, my ill success.”

!” cried
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO, 129

“Well, then, my dear sir, be seated, and believe that I
shall hardly feel less grief than yourself, at whatever disap-
pointments you have met.”

Mr. Carrolton smiled his thanks, and continued—* My
visit, at least, throws some light upon the motive for my in-
carceration. I found that by the very few who slightly knew
me, and who yet live, I am fully believed to be dead. And
from them also, I learned that I had, by will, left all my pro-
perty toa man named Jennings. This man, soon after my
death was reported, took undisputed possession of mny effects,
and afterwards sold them and left Boston, and went, no one
knew whither, for he has never been heard of since.”

“The villain, doubtless, who effected your ruin and after
misery,” exclaimed Hautleroy.

“Tt can be no other,” answered the visitor, “but I have
no recollection of the name.”

“Tt may have been an assumed one,” suggested Hautle-
roy. “Villainous plot! But, my dear sir, rest assured that
the scoundrel will yet be brought to justice ; and already has
Providence commenced its punishment of the crime, in rescu-
ing you from their toils. Your jailers in England were, in all
probability, the miscreant’s agents, and he himself is, doubt-
less, not far off. A return to England will be necessary. In
the meanwhile you must publish this daring story to the
world.”

“No, no,” said the visitor; “I think it best for the pre-
sent to be silent. If he is in America, and should hear of my
escape, it will only give him warning to elude my grasp.”

“He will, though,” answered Hautleroy, “soon learn the
news through his agents who guarded you, if, by the way,
they should not be afraid to communicate it to him. Per
haps, however, your course is best. And now, what steps do
you next propose ?”
130 JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

“To return to-morrow to Boston, and there, while pursu-
ing my inquiries, recruit my health. After a time, I shall
probably follow the advice of my physician, and make a visit
to some warmer climate—perhaps my old home in Jamaica.”

“Tf that is your course, sir,” said Hautleroy, “it will be all
in your way to pay me a visit during the summer, in Charles.
ton, or rather at a country residence in Carolina, where I am
to meet a circle of friends. The climate will suit you most
admirably, and when it becomes too cold, you can continue
your tour to Jamaica. You promise speedily to join me
there, or to accompany me ?”

“ Ah, my dear young friend,” replied the visitor with emo-
tion, “ whatever your climate is, your’s must be a land of
warm hearts, if there are many like your own.”

Hautleroy gaily disclaimed any right to such a compli-
ment; and the servant, at this moment announcing another
visitor below, Mr. Carrolton took his leave.

CHAPTER VI.
THE VALET DE CHAMBRE.

Iw the face and figure of the new visitor, none, at all fa-
miliar with national peculiarities and airs, could, for an in-
stant, have failed to recognize a son of that sea-girt isle, which,
as a birth-place, the poet says, “men are proud to claim ;”
but at the same time, with the slightest possible intimacy
with Lavater, they would have seen, that whatever love and
pride the favoured child might cherish for his father-Jand,
that father-land had no very especial cause to be particularly
vain of its offspring. Taking the original significance of the
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 131

term gentleman, the same in which it is understood by the
lower classes of European states—a title of the wealthy and
indolent man, of gentle birth and life—he had no claim
whatever to the cognomen ; and, if we may anticipate our his-
tory a little, he had still less claim to the name, in the accep-
tation of moral rectitude, given in our own republican Jand.
Indeed, his was that slavish manner, at once characterirtic of
the servility accustomed to bow to the beck and will of oth-
ers. This character is far more distinctive, under the doimi-
nation of aristocratic rule, than in a clime like ours, where all
men feel themselves in equal position. Hautleroy’s life, how-
ever, passed abroad, had rendered him more familiar with
the prejudices of the former ; and instinctively recognizing the
station of his visitor, he received him with that cold abrupt-
ness, and calm graciousness, which mark the general demea-
nour of the superior towards the inferior.

The man, as he entered the apartment, with a deferential
bow, proffered a billet, with “a note, sir, from Mr. Joseph
Shelton.”

Mr. Joseph Shelton, the father of Mr. Stephen Shelton,
with whom the reader is already acquainted, was a wealthy
and respectable citizen, “a grave and reverend seigneur ” of
the city of New-York, and among those to whom letters from
the elder Hautleroy had been sent to meet his son on his
arrival in that city. The letter of introduction Mr, Hautle-
roy had duly despatched with his card to Mr. Shelton’s man-
sion, and had made such acquaintance with him, as might
follow from such courtesy, and its return, in a formal call and
proffer of service from the other party.

Willing to further his intimacy with his father’s friends by
placing himself under some nominal obligations, he had ac-
cepted his offers of service, in so far as a mention of his de-
sire to procure a competent and faithful body servant. This
132 JOCASSEE} OR IL CAPANNETTO.

luxury, though not very common with those even of his own
station at home, had become so habitual to him in his foreign
life, that he felt unwilling to forego it now. The billet of
Mr. Shelton, senior, was in memory of this expressed desire,
and ran thus:

My Dear Sir: In answer to your intimation regarding a
valet, it gives me great pleasure to have stumbled upon one,
every way suitable and deserving of your confidence. The
bearer is a worthy man, and in many ppints a very desirable
fellow ; indeed, I may say, a perfect treasure. He is at pre-
sent out of employ, and will esteem it an honour to enter your
service. Touching accomplishments, you will catechise him
at your pleasure, and in all points, I think, to your satisfac-
tion. Happy, with the opportunity of rendering you this
slight service,

I am sir, your obedient servant,
JosrrH SHELTON.

Fourth-street, Monday Afternoon.

“You desire,” said the young gentleman, addressing the
visitor, after a glance at the note, “to enter my service 2”

“T should hold myself fortunate, sir, if you thought me
suitable.”

“You are an Englishman?”

“ Yes, sir.”

“ And your name is

“ My name—,” answered the man, hesitating, from some
cause or other, “my name—ahem—”

“Yes, sir! your name. Have you forgotten it, or is it so
difficult a one to speak ?”

“Brown, sir: John Brown,” returned the man, this time

q”

 

with promptness—having, meanwhile, settled in his mind
whatever difficulty had arisen.
“Ah, no wonder you were perplexed to find it in such a
JOCASSEE}; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 133

crowd as there is, of similar ones,” said the querist, relaxing
the stern look of suspicion which had gathered for a moment
in his eye. He still, however, continued to rogard him keen-
ly, not extremely predisposed in his favour, as he added—

“You come recommended from a respectable source, sir.”

“Yes, sir: I had the honour to serve Mr. Shelton some
years ago in England, besides several noblemen, from whom
I have characters.”

“Well, well; I suppose you deserve them. Your duties,
in my service, will not be arduous: little more than to be
always ready—in case you should be required. Iam going
to the South, and may pass the summer in the country—”

“Tn the country, sir?” interrupted the valet in a voice of
disappointment. “I thought you were going to spend the
season in Charleston, with your friends, and Mr. Pearson, and
his family.”

“The devil !” ejaculated Hautleroy. ‘“ What do you know
about my friends, and Mr. Pearson and his family ; aad still
more, what do they concern you 2”

“T beg pardon, sir,” interrupted the valet with embarrass-
ment. “Mr. Shelton, in speaking of the advantages of your
service, mentioned Charleston, and the names of your friends
there, with great praise. I spoke without thinking.”

“You are bold enough, certainly,” added Hautleroy, “and
very nice in your tastes, since you canvass the eligibility of
not only your master, but his residence and _his- associates.
Upon my soul! Mr. Shelton, too, must hold you in high
esteem, to enter into such particulars with you. But if it is
a matter of moment with you, it is those very Charleston
friends with whom I design spending my time in the coun-
try. Now, is the country endurable to you ?”

“Spare me, sir ; I meant no offence, and shall be happy to
act your pleasure in every thing.”

12
134 JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO,

“Well, that is more to my purpose. Call upon me to-
morrow, at ten, and we will talk further of this business.
Good night.”

“Twill be punctual, sir,” replied the applicant, obeying
the implied command to retire. As he did so, he stooped to
replace a card which had fallen from the table—the card of
the last visitor. Glancing at its face, as he did so, the name
called from him an involuntary cry of surprise.

“¢Carrolton ? good G—d! What Carrolton is that, sir 2”

Hautleroy, supposing the action of picking up the stray
card, a mere commencement of his service, as indeed the man
had designed it, scarcely noticed it, until he was filled with
astonishment at this sudden and rude exclamation.

“You know your place, certainly, sir, to put such abrupt
questions! I must teach you better manners! That is the
name of an old friend of mine, and what on earth have you
to do with it ?”

The man was evidently relieved by the reply, and blunder-
ed out something about an old crony of his, of the same
name, whom he had not met for many a year, and whom at
the instant he foolishly fancied might be the same, ending
with most humble suit for pardon of his unintentional offence.

Hautleroy fairly laughed outright at the reply. ‘‘ Capi-
tal, capital! An old crony of yours, and old friend of mine,
identified! An old crony of your's, with a card at all! I
must put down your overpowering love for your old crony
as a veil to your presumption; and once more he motioned
him to retire.

“ By the rood!” he ejaculated when the man was gone,
“there is something about this fellow that savours of the
mysterious, or else he is a most incredible innocent. But
Shelton recommends him—I’l] call upon him—at once !—no,
Tl engage the fellow, if it be only to satisfy the little grain
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO. | 135

of curiosity in my mind. This Carrolton business is, I sup-
pose, simply what he says it is, but Pll mention it to him, if
I think of it, when I meet him again.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE VALLEY AND CO'YTAGE.

In vain was the presence of Mr. Hautleroy expected by his
friends in Charleston. At length, when after the lapse of
several weeks, formal intelligence was received of his arrival
in New-York, and his necessary detention by certain affairs in
that city, still longer, and indefinitely, the gentlemen hasten-
ed to join their fair companions, already domiciled in the
country. We promised to rejoin them at Il Capannetto, and
‘at that fairy villa, dear reader, we now set you down.

Remember that it is the noon of broiling summer; you
have just left the poisoned atmosphere, natuial and moral, of
the crowded city, and are now enjoying the exhilarating tem-
perature of pure, untutored Nature: the cheek of the fair
dame was never more rosy than at this moment; her eye
never more sparkling ; her lip never more voiceful. What a
spirit of repose and buoyancy pervades the scene! How
you feel, with Willis, looking at the morning sunbeams steal-
ing over the summits of those encircling hills—that it is “a
morn for life, in its most subtle luxury.” How light you are
of heart! how your whole frame and soul beat in harmony
with the indefinable essence of delight and hilarity, that
laughs in every particle of the air around you! It affects
your whole nature, physical, mental, and moral. Your limbs
are freer and your nerves stronger than they are wont. Your
136 JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO.

intellect is swept of its cobwebs, and you look upon all mat.
ters with a keener and clearer head. Your heart is purer,
more generous ; you feel less selfish, and cherish more of love
to your neighbor and your God. We know this to be your
feeling, reeder, for we take you for, no less than ourself, one
of soul and kindly sympathies, and they are our own emo-
tions. So also are they those of each of the inhabitants of
the valley in which you stand.

Look at the group! There—upon the piazza of the pic-
turesque villa befure you! How furtively the newly born
sunbeams are stealing through the vine covered trellis-work !
See the pure pleasure enthroned on each smiling countenance.
There is the lovely Margaretta Pearson, in a robe of simple
white, with kindred hued flowerets amid her luxuriant hair.
The smile on her lip speaks of pleasure within. She is less
worldly and selfish in heart than when she left the city two
short weeks ago. Nature has been a salutary monitor to
her. She has good in her nature, and the proper means are
bringing it forth. Near her is Ellen Vere, arrayed in sister
garb. She is standing with her hands crossed upon her
friend’s shoulder, and—ah, envied hands—they are cushions
for her fair face. Her accustomed air of haughty coldness
and sneering indifference has vanished, and her eyes are bent
upwards towards the gentlemen, from whose lips some gay
jests are falling. Ellen! you, also, have a heart, though it
has long lain perdu, in the mass of the hollow pestilential
incense, which has gathered around it, since you first were of
an age to be flattered. The sweet enchantress, Nature, is
bringing that lost heart to light. Could you, indeed, gaze
upon such a scene as that now under your eye, with your
usual insensibility, we should regard you as less than woman.

Look at Neva Cameron! She is roaming, like a released
fawn, through the tortuous garden paths, watching the
JOOASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO, 137

matchless effect of bright Sol’s amours, as growing bolder
in his ascent, his kiss rests upon leaf after leaf, and glade
after glade, until soon the whole scene will be wrapt in his
warm embrace. “It seems,” she says with enthusiasm, “as
though all Nature’s lieges were bowed at their matin prayers,
while the masses of vapour stealing upward through the
whole valley may be taken for clouds of incense, ascending
to Nature’s God ;” and now she is warbling a parody of Tom
Moore’s song—

“ Sweet vale of Jocassee,

How calm could I rest !”

Authur Merriton is joyous as the morn, How pleased he
seems, in watching the delight around him! Heartless, too,
is much less heartless than of old.

Mr. Stephen Shelton, indeed, stands somewhat apart from
the rest, and his thoughts appear not to be wholly engrossed
by the charms around him. A slight curl of sinister mean-
ing is upon his lip, Never is there much to love in his
appearance, but at this particular moment, like many others,
there is not a little to fear.

Miss Woodlette is quietly seated, with a face placid and
peaceful as the rippling stream, pursuing its quiet way not a
hundred yards before her; by her side is Doctor Quotem,
with a huge copy of Woodsworth open before him. He is
calling her attention to the description of the “ Valley of the
Solitary” in the “ Excursion.”

“ Full many a spot
Of hidden beauty, have I chanced to espy,
Among the mountains; never one like this ;
So lonesome and so perfectly secure,
In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie !
How tenderly protected !
* * * * — peace is here
Or nowhere.”

12*
138 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

He has finished reading, and Heartless has just snatched a
paper which has dropped from the fulds of the book. It
seems, from the general hilarity and the doctor’s eagerness
to regain possession of it, that some one of the group has
been guilty of playing poet. Heartless has mounted a chair,
and, in answer to the popular voice, is reading the manu-
script. Will you, reader, give ear to Quotem’s

SONG TO JOCASSEE.

On the hills, and crags, and the raging sea,
And in caverns deep, some bend the knee
To nature's charms—and each worthily :
But the quiet vale is the shrine for me,
And of vales, the sweet vale of Jocassee.

In the deep gloomy cavern’s mystery,
Objects of grace and wonder there be,
To fill with delight the curious e’e:
But the gentle vale above all for me,
And of valleys, the vale of Jocassee.

On the mountain height with its vistas free,
Far as the enraptured eye can see,

Dwell lovetiness and sublimity ;

But the gentle vale above all for me,

And of vales, none sweeter than Jocassee.

On the rough crags’ wild acclivity,

Again may the cold heart beat merrily ;

But the shadowed lawn, with the shrub and tree,
That adorn the vale, forevér for me,

And such is my valley of Jocassee.

On the hills and crags, and the raging sea,
And in cayerns deep, some bend the knee
To nature’s charras—and each worthily :
But the quiet vale is the shrine for me,
And of valleys, the vale of Jocassee,
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO, 139

CHAPTER VIII.
CHIT CHAT.

Iv our last chapter, dear readers, we had you safely housed
within the precincts of the quiet valley ; and there, with our
mutual friends, the actors in this veritable narrative, we shall
henceforth hold you prisoners, since we know not that we
shall again have to mingle in the great world. Such associa-
tion, indeed, in the mere search of incident and romance,
would at all times be superfluous, but in this instance espe-
cially so. “Within the bosom of Jocassee, where the unob-
serving eye would seek only dull monotony—a dead stag-
nance of life, passed scenes, which, though common enough
and utterly unnoticed, occur every day, in real life around us,
yet when held up to our minds, in one view by the pen of
the historian, meet only with.a doubting smile, and are looked
upon as “a tale that is told.”

Ah, little would one think how much of the “smiles and
tears of life’s histories” beamed and flowed in this secluded
vale, during the two bricf months occupied in the action of
our drama! If, dear readers, these smiles and tears are only
the fantasies of the author’s brain, yet, nevertheless, indulge
yourself in a faith in their reality—-as you indulge yourself in
a credulous trust that the world itself, its hopes and fears, its
pleasures, honours, friendships, and loves, are not, as they
really are—empty dreams.

Such delusions are pleasant—and many ‘neath their spell,
occupied as we are now, have, forgetting even the griping
hand of poverty and its concomitant miseries, been

« More blest than kings—like Tam O’Shanter glorious,
O’er all the numerous ills of life victorious !”

Thus wrapt, what was it to them, that while others were
140 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO,

toasting their precious toes by a December fire, they were
manceuvreing a matrimonial alliance between the lappels of
their venerable coats; that while the stumps of their cigars
were extended ia mortal throes before their eyes, their pocket-
search for the “splendid shilling” to purchase their successors,
was vain; that while a voice within them was earnestly cry-
ing, “ Arise Peter, kill and eat!” the heavens were not open-
ed, neither was the “ vessel as it had been a great sheet, knit
at the four corners, and crammed with all manner of edibles,
(such even, as they were,) let down into their garrets.”

All these désagrémens were to them less real than the
pleasing dreams in which they were revelling. As the words
flowed from the point of their little steel gabbler, each was to
their ears audible; with its surprise they wondered, with its
sentiment they sympathized, with its pleasantries they laughed.

Such, beloved readers, is ever a writer’s delight, amidst the
imaginary groups which he gathers about him. Such is our
own pleasure while we greet you in our present little party.
Some of them are people after our own heart, and from all
we trust to extract some profit or pleasure. We would,
therefore, seek to interest you in them, and to this end, shall
let slip no opportunity to further your better acquaintance.
The unbridled chit-chattery of the home-circle offers as good
an index to character as one might wish—suppose, then, that
you listen, with us, to the gossip which followed the reading
of poor Quotem’s devoted song.

“«Wung be the heavens in black,’” cried Miss Pearson,
with all the passion and fervour of that model of firmness
and constancy, Queen Anne, “that I should live to see my
dear friend reduced to that last stage of idiocy—verse-mak-
ing! Alas, alas! this fatal country air !”

““O!” added Ellen Vere, “ he is crazed beyond doubt, but,
then, there is a Hamletian method in his madness which is
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 141

quite pretty. He shall be our prince of lunatics, and at an
early day he shall be pompously crowned—

His subjects shall gather in sylvan féte,

And wreath him fair Jocassee’s laureate.”

“Miss Vere,” retorted Quotem slyly, and alluding to the
rhyming close of her speech, “ Miss Vere appears to be mak-
ing some pretensions to share the crown of the monarch
elect !”

This repartee turned the laugh upon the lady, and Mr.
Heartless, from a malicious twinkle of his eve, cherished an
intent to increase her confusion, when, drawing a paper from
his pocket, he again mounted his chair.

“Tf Miss Ellen,” said he, “is to be queen, I think I must
set up my own pretensions to the crown over my dear Doc-
tor Quotem’s. These verses are to his as Hyperion to Satyr.
I wrote them.”

“O!” shrieked Margaretta, “ Mr. Heartless making poetry !
What a dreadful epidemic! Do, do kill the poor wretch
and put him out of his misery !”

When Mr. Heartless had succeeded in allaying the univer-
sal horror, induced by his astonishing confession, he con-
tinued,

“T wrote them—not to-day, or yesterday; for then, and
now, I was and am perfectly sane. I wrote them some three
years ago, when half recovered from one of the most dread-
ful attacks of hydrophobia of which it would be possible to
conceive. I was bit by that mad-dog,”

“What! old Towser, that uncle Henry killed three years
ago?” interrupted Margaretta.

“No,” returned Heartless, “by that mad-dog, Cupid!
The wound was severe and venomous. For two long months
(short ones I loved to think them at the time) I suffered from
it, and but for a most fortunate turn at the very crisis of the

 

 
142 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

attack, I might have fallen a victim !—a victim to love! ha,
ha, ha!”

The ha, ha, ha’s of the whole group were long and hearty
at the very idea of the unhappy gentleman suffering from
afflictions of such a nature. When silence again followed,
he continued, opening his paper, and fixing bis eye upon
Ellen Vere, until the unbidden rose mantled her face and
neck—‘“ In these lines, which were written soon after the
aforesaid crisis, I have recorded the nature of my affliction,
and the happy cause of my recovery. They are as follows,
and bear the abstruse and erudite title of

ASK PAPA!

Fair Cynthia was sleeping on her azure bed,

And the stars round her couch their radiance shed ;

The soft dews of the even’ in deep silence fell—

Save only their echo—their trespass to tell ;

When—my arm round the waist of my sweet Ellen Vere,
I ventured to breath this soft tale in her ear.

‘The face of the night-queen, dearest, is not so free
From stain as the love which I cherish for thee ;
No; nor is the soft dew of the even’ so pure—
The light of the stars so unchanging and sure ;

And the happiest of mortals I ever shall be,

Will my Ellen but breathe the same tale to me!”

As the fair girl looked up—though I could not tell why—
I fancied I saw a sly glance in her eye;

But of doubt and of dream there remained not a bit,
When with a gay laugh she unelosed her sweet lip,

And most cruelly nipping my romance—ah, ah !

She whispered, in softest tones, ‘ Ask my papa|’”

The ghosts of ancient love passages between Ellen and

Heartless, had been long flitting before the eyes of their
friends, and this palpable avowal of their reality was hailed
JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO, 143

as a god-send by all present, who cherished either a love of
revenge ora passion for quizzing. Heartless, by thus turn-
ing, as it were, State’s evidence, shielded himself from this
bantering punishment, but at the cost of the devoted Ellen,
an avalanche of squibs, and quirks, and remnants of wit, was
tottering upon every lip. The bravery with which she was
wont to play with Mr. Heartless, at King Richard’s and Lady
Anne’s “ keen encounter of wits,” for once deserted her, and
vowing revenve with the air of a lovely and spoilt vixen, she
flew from the group as speedily as flies the damsel of fifteen
from the lover’s tryst, when the echo of papa’s foot-step plays
‘herald to his approach. She might have sustained herself
with the dignity of outraged courtesy, only that she felt her
own lack of tender mercies in times past, towards her tormen-
tor, not only justified his cruel treatment, but gave it the
diamond’s keenness.

“ Do you not think, Mr. Heartless,” asked Neva Cameron,
when the gentleman’s self-felicitations upon his escape were
ended, “Do you not think, that, instead of that period of
your life being one of folly, your whole career bears that cha-
racter, and that moment was a solitary gleam of reason, of
nature, and of heart 2”

“©, Miss Cameron! The-ignorance of the age is truly
surprising! You are, indeed, groping in the valley of the
shadow of darkness. The simple truth is, that the gods—
you remember the saying—were resolved to destroy me. To
accomplish their ends, they thus lead their victims into these
singular infatuations, brought about by high nervous excite-
ment and senseless dreaming. Many never recover from the
fatal credulity, until too late. Happily that ‘ask papa,’ was
to me the open-sesame to the temple of reason; and now,
having once compared the fields of common sense with the
144 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

domains of dream-land, I am henceforth armed against such
snares.”

“ And you now believe yourself invulnerable. So also did
Monsieur Achilles after his ducking,” said Mr. Shelton.

“Ah, but my shield has many thicknesses, plated from ac-
cumulated sheets of trumpet-tongued observation. When
that galvanic ‘ask papa’ struck my ear, and opened to me
the whole consequence of my fully, I remembered that if my
lady-love was young and handsome, she had, as Shakespeare
says, ‘the gift to know it;’ that

«If she had a bosom white as snow,

She knew how much ’twas best to show °’
here was one plate in my adamantine shield. If nature and
grace spoke in the figure and carriage, I thought of art and
milliners: here was another thickness in my armour. If her
voice was the melodious treble in the salon, I bethought ine
of the harsh * second’ reserved for home consumption : an-
other plating. If neatness and elegance marked the outward
woman on the thronged pavé, I dreamed of morning disha-
billes and twisted love-letters: another thickness. If feet
were small, I thought of smallershoes. If cheeks were bloom-
ing, oh, the expense of rouge. If teeth sparkled, I cursed my
rasping dentist: thus another, another, and another coat upon
my well made shield !”

“Nay, nay, Mr. Heartless,” interrupted Miss Cameron,
“your shield is thick enough, if it were only solid material.
It is but your own insufferable vanity that imputes such falsi-
ty to our sex. Who, pray, is the suspicious man but the
guilty ? Who rails at wealth but the poverty-stricken wretch ?
Who question love and truth, save the soulless and false ?”

“Nay, Miss Neva, I speak not in mere irony. Tell me if
nine poor Bendicts out of ten have not eventually found their
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 145

foolish homage to woman to have been paid at the shrine of
their own luxuriant fancies? Do they not discover with the
German Weiland, that with the first kiss of possession, the
airy frost-work of courtship melts away? Is not marriage
proverbially the lifting of an Isis veil, when what promised so
much is found to bea mere blank? Though courtship is the
oie d'or of the fairy tale, is not wedlock the assassination of
the poor goose? Are not courtship and marriage like the
cup of the Lacedemonians, the upper part white, clear, and
pure, while the roseate hue of the bottom of the glass serves
only to hide the nauseous draughts which lurk beneath ?
While courtship may be a long avenue of delight, with a
mirror, at its close, promising an illimitable extension of the
rapturous scene, is not marriage the cold blank, found when
this mirror, (which may resemble the matrimonial altar) is,
in the attempt to pass, shivered ? Did not Socrates find these
truths written in burning characters at the bottom of his poi-
soned cup? Have not many seen the gyrations of broom-
sticks over their fated heads, fancifully wreath themselves into
the same speaking lessons ?”

“But,” he cried, jumping from his rostrum, and out of
breath with his eager declamation, “I must bring bach my
truant Lady Disdain, that she may inhale the sweets of my
logic !”

Thus ending, the speaker, amid the plaudits of his audi-
ence, beat his retreat.

18
146 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

CHAPTER Ix.
THE CONSPIRATORS.

“ Waar an insufferable egotist !” cried Miss Pearson, when
Heartless was fairly off upon his self-imposed mission.
“Would that we could devise some method of rebuking his
arrogance !”

“ My very thought,” added Mr. Merriton ; “I was upon the
point of proposing a little divertissement to that end.”

“0, do, do!” cried all. “Any thing ! we'll promise to as-
sist you. O, if we could only get Mr. Heartless in love !”

“ My very idea, again,” returned Mr. Merriton. “ Do you
know I fancy Mr. Heartless one of those persons who take
pleasure in proclaiming himself worse than he is; one who
talks, too, as much for his amusement as any other object.
He has moved so much in the world, especially in the gay
and dissipated circles, that he has insensibly imbibed the
fashionable infidelity, and takes a pleasure in the advocacy of
his engrafted sentiments : not that he actually cherishes them,
or really questions the blessings or power of love.”

“ Question, indeed,” interrupted Doctor Quotem indignant-
ly. “Does not Plutarch say that ‘love and marriage are
gifts of the gods to’—”

“ Well, well, doctor,” resumed Arthur, “a truce to poor
Plutarch, and listen to my scheme. I was about saying that,
so far from his questioning the reality of love, he, like all the
human family, cherishes the secret hope of some day finding
an altar whereon he may offer the oblation of his confidence,
and earnestly pray the holy fire to descend upon the sacri-
fice.”

“You mean,” added Quotem, “that as Byron says, he be-
lieves
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO, 147

‘ Although he has found them not,

That there may be words which are things.
* * * at * *

That two or one, are almost what they seem,
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.’”

“ Precisely, doctor; and if I may add to the draught upon
your author, he sometimes prays, in his heart, to the eles
ments to accord him such a being. Now, I think that since
the tranquillity of country life has softened his skepticism, and
brought him back to nature, that if we could only manage to
make him believe in the existence of a heart, in one of our
friends, he might be wholly reclaimed. Between Miss Vere
and himself, as we have long suspected, there once existed
some symptoms of the tender passion, and which I am fully
persuaded they still mutually cherish. Now, a little plot,
against the better feelings of each, will perhaps make two
poor fools happy, or at least give us a capital laugh.”

“And full revenge,” added Quotem, “ for the reams he
has thrown at us of his ‘paper bullets of the brain,’ as the
poet says.”

“Mr. Merriton,” asked Neva, “is it a little rehearsal of
Benedict and Beatrice in the play, which you propose ?”

“ Not exactly, though that, indeed, suggested the thing to
my mind. How do you think, Miss Neva, he will bear the
poor ‘married man’s tooth-ache ?’”

“T do not know, Mr. Merriton, but I should like very much
to see him writhing under it! Do tell us how the happy
end is to be accomplished! Imprimis ?”

“Imprimis, then—the ladies must sympathize with Miss
Vere in her resentment toward Heartless, propose to her the
punishment of a serious siege of his heart, and at the same
time lay a wager with her that with all her prowess she can-
not bring him to her feet. Thus you will enlist her anger
148 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

and her vanity—two very strong passions (pardon me) in
woman-kind.”

“Tt shall be done!” exclaimed all, “and then Mr. Merri-
ton, what next ?”

“In the second place, we will enlist Heartless’s vaunted
powers, in a similar manner ; depend upon it, both will make
careful and serious assaults, and as they will each be ignorant
of the other’s design, we may, by judicious management,
persuade Heartless tbat Ellen receives his addresses seriously,
while you instil the belief in the mind of Ellen that they are
seriously made. Both thus believing in the sincerity of the
other, the assumed feeling in each will insensibly grow into
real and grave emotion. The game will be caught, and then
comes the time to reveal the cage !”

Mr. Merriton’s plan was highly applauded, secrecy and
fidelity mutually pledged; and before the day passed, the wa-
gers were proffered and accepted.

CHAPTER X.
THE EXCURSION,

Ir was on a day subsequent to the occurrence of the last
chapter’s incidents, that the party for the first time left the
precincts of the valley to visit the remarkable cascades of the
“ White-Water,” in the gorges of the adjacent mountain.
On the morning selected for this excursion, the human ther-
mometers stood, to speak within bounds, at least at 100°.
All was life, animation, hilarity, and joyous: expectation,
Why ! the ordinary attractions of such a ramble, in such a
season, and on such a day—the giant hills, the brave old
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 149

woods, the foaming streams, were sufficient to make the mer-
cury crazy ; but to these charms, add a general eagerness to
allay curiosity, touching certain tales with which this same
excursion was connected, and then imagine the enchantment,
if youcan. On no less than three several occasions, when the
gentlemen had returned from hunting, had they tantalized
the ladies with vague reports of an encounter with some
stranger knight, whose pleasures seemed to centre in an old
portfolio, in which he was ever scratching some delicate mor-
ceau of the lovely scenery of the neighbourhood. Some-
times this incognito was alone, and again, accompanied by a
second stranger, seeming quite as well satisfied to dispense
with all society, but his own, as was the other. Now who
were these La Mancha men, and of what were they in quest
in these “Green Mountains?” Was the limner another un-
fortunate Cardenio, or was lie, forsooth, the knight of the
sorrowful figure himself, and his companion the veritable San-
cho? Who, and what were they? These were questions
which the coming visit promised to solve, and our city belles
had been long enough in the seclusion of country life to feel
an eager interest in the slightest breeze of novelty.

But this was not all; this was but the share of the démoi-
selles. The old people had their portion of wonder, about an
elderly lady, recently arrived in the vicinity, and now leading
a very secluded li’e, not a mile distant, in the very path they
were to travel. And, lastly, to keep alive the spirits of the
gentlemen—under the guardianship of this same elderly lady
—it was well proved, both by report and ocular demonstra-
tion, there flourished a blooming maiden of no slight attrac-
tion, either in face or figure. Whether the neice, ward, or
daughter, of the elder, was to the party unknown,

Is it strange this visit to the Falls was particularly wel-
come to every one? Was not their curiosity perfectly natu-

13*
150 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

ral, and was it more than right it should be satisfied? What
business, indeed, had any one, old or young, male or female,
gentle or simple, to preserve any shade of incognito, any ray
of secrecy, under the very noses of the gay party at I] Capan-
netto? None, whatever; ’twas inadmissible; ’twas unpardon-
able. So all thought, and it was soon settled that these
clouds of mysticism should be fairly ostracized.

The morning came, and ‘twas a well contested race be-
tween old Sol and the tourists who should be first up. It
must, however, be admitted, that Sol had somewhat the bet-
ter of the party, for it was the first gleam of his jocund face
through the casement which set them in motion.

The ladies monopolized the horses, leaving the gentlemen
to follow by their sides, like orthodox cavaliers. Merriton
invariably found himself dropt near Miss Pearson, as the
toy pith-men, place them as you will, always fall into the
same attitude. Heartless proffered his services with empresse-
ment, yet not too eagerly or too tenderly, to Miss Vere ; and
Miss Vere accepted the escort of Mr. Heartless graciously, yet
not with too great a show of pleasure.

Doctor Quotem played esquire to Miss Woodlette; while
Mr. Vere had a double charge, in the persons of Mrs. Vere
and Neva Cameron, Mr. Shelton some half hour before hav-
ing very strangely abandoned the group upon an unsatisfac-
tory plea of some urgent engagement, with some one, in some
other quarter.

No esquire but proved equal to his charge, excepting only
Doctor Quotem, who, unfortunately, was too much troubled
about his own personal safety to think of any one else, stand-
ing, as he did, in as much mortal dread of the rattle-snakes
with which this region was more or less infested—as did Mr.
Panza and Dulcinea of Toboso’s champion of the terrible
fulling-mills. With a grace which no one but Doctor John-
JOCASSEE ; OR IL OAPANNETTO, 151

son might have envied, he bore directly before him, a pole
some fifteen feet in length, held at a right angle with his own
perpendicular. Upon the tip of this delicate wand was se-
cured a root of the “rattle-snake’s master”—a herb growing
in the vicinage, and said to be regarded by the reptiles with
intense aversion.

“ Forty-three-snakes,” said Heartless carelessly, and con-
tinuing some remarks to Quotem, “ were, to be sure, killed
at one time, and near this very spot, last summer ; but then,
you know, that is a mere trifle, and it is said that since that
period they have still further decreased. Some years ago it
was really dangerous to traverse these hills, but now we need
not be at all alarmed. Still it will be quite as well to be
eareful—Hark ! certainly I heard a rattle !-—hist—”

Quotem became pallid as the grave, in the interval of si-
lence which followed, and until Mr. Heartless avowed himself
mistaken.

Another moment, and the travellers entering a wild jungle,
Mr. Heartless’s anxiety returned.

“Hark ! what was that? Here, Quotem, my good fellow,
for God’s sake, stir up this brush wood with your long pole !”

The doctor, trembling in every nerve, vainly tried to cloak
his alarm.

Heartless again looking back, and peering behind Quotem,
vowed by the serpent which seduced Eve, that this time his
ears did not deceive him! At the same moment, a sharp
thrill of pain in the back of his neck caused Quotem to place
his hand on the irritated part, and when he withdrew his fin-
ger, it was, to his infinite horror, spotted with blood !

An indescribable alarm ensued among his friends, scarcely
less than in the mind of the victim; neither were Heartless’s
consvling assurances that although the wound was in most ca-
ses fatal, he might possibly recover, sufficient to exorcise the
152 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

legion of death’s heads which were grinning before his eyes.
In the midst of the confusion, Mr. Heartless, in a convulsion
of laughter, held up to the public gaze a pin with a bloody
point, which instantly explaining his joke, changed the scene
iuto one of mingled anger and mirth.

Quotem looked all the daggers in the world, not excepting
the air-drawn stiletto of Macbeth, and at Jength found words
to remark indignantly, “ You may think the joke very funny,
sir !—very funny—very !|--eh—eh! But as the frogs said in
the fable, ‘what is sport to you is death to us.’”

“ Nay, nay, my dear doctor, let not your temper be ruffled ;
I crave a thousand pardons. D n it, man, can’t you take
a joke, even if it does have rather a sharp point? Ah, ah}
cheer up, mon ami ; it was only a quotativn from ‘ Tricks
upon Travellers,’ and a very pretty passage too, eh! There,
you shall have the fang (offering him the pin) to preserve ia
your cabinet of pickled curiosities !”

Mr. Heartless had in reserve for his butt, one more touch-
ing extract from the same pleasing volume. The doctor, in
his attire, was as careful and classic as in his language, and
to preserve a new garb from intimacy with vile, contamina-
ting mud, instead of following the party through a miry place
in the route, he was at much trouble to find a cleaner passage
over a little ridge which embanked the slough. Heartless,
unseen by him, stealthily followed his steps, and seeing on
the highest point of the bank a dead snake, he hastily gave
it an affectionate twist around the unconscious victim’s neck.
The shock was too intense; the doctor lost his presence of
mind, if not his senses; and to the deep scandal of grace and
neatness, and the great detriment to the well-being of his
wardrobe, he very quietly took a speedy passage down the
bank into the centre of the very slough he had just before
spent so much speculation, mathematics and care, to avoid.

 
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 153

Heartless, looking over the ledge, very joyously congratula-
ted him upon having a capital, most capital opportunity—
one that might not soon, if ever retura—of quoting the beau-
tiful soliloquy, in the nursery songs, of the old lady so ex-
tremely puzzled to establish her own identity—

“Tf I be I, as I suppose I he,

T have a little dog at home,

And he knows me |”

The doctor might, indeed, have well required the aid of his
friends to tell him who he was, but he was in no humour to
enjoy the quotation, or the mirth which prevailed at his ex-
pense. His patience had fairly toppled from her monument,
and he expressed his resolve to pursue the journey no farther,
but to remain there until the party’s return. Miss Wood-
lette, at this last cruel joke, lost, for once, her calm gracious-
ness of expression, and gravely took the doctor’s part against
Mr. Heartless. Quotem, proving obstinate in his resolve to
go no farther, and some questions arising about a new cava-
lier for Miss Woodlette, the lady expressed her intention to
pass the day with Doctor Quotem and the occupants of the
neighbouring cottage. As this was the residence of the un-
known dames, Miss Martha’s desire was granted, the ladies,
hoping on their return, to benefit by the results of her day’s
exploration.

With the charge to take good care of each other, the re-
creants were left to themselves, and so also, reader, we must
leave them and continue on to the Falls, ever loving such
scenes better than the unwelcome place of third person sin-
gular, in the neighbourhood of a blooming maiden and gal-
lant youth, cherishing no very especial aversion towards each
other.

Guaily passed the rest of the journey; now leading along
the heaven-reaching ridge, now through the noiseless valley,
154 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO,

revealing at one moment, in the distance, the falling sheet
high above them; and again, far beneath the eye.

Hearty was their matin meal, on the lovely terrace border-
ing the basin of the first cascade of the lower and nearer se-
ries of falls. At the close of the sylvan repast, buoyantly
they bounded from rock to rock, pausing at each new terrace
to admire the ever varying scene.

Turning to continue their exploration after one of these
pauses, their attention was suddenly arrested by a new object
of attraction—none other than a stranger, seated at the open-
ing of a lovely vista, and apparently absorbed in sketching
the charms it revealed. That the pencil was not his sole
amusement, however, was very plainly told by the presence
of the noble dog at his feet, and the fuwling-piece near his
hand.

“Gently,” whispered Heartless, first directing their eyes to
the stranger—“ there he is—that’s he—our knight of the
port-folio! by Jupiter! he is a nobie looking fellow !—and
that dog !”

“ Where ?” asked Neva Cameron. “TI do not see him.”

“Here, this way ;” returned Mr. Heartless, directing her to
an eligible place of observation, but in the midst of a growth
of brush and rank weeds. Neva unhesitatingly gained the
spot, but scarcely had she so done, when a scream of intense
agony from her friends caused her to gaze around, and she
looked full upon the glaring eyes of one of the very reptiles
of which so many gay jests had recently been made. The
poor girl seemed spell-bound, neither moving nor uttering the
slightest cry ; indeed, the former, in her position, would have
been impossible, excepting in the very direction of the snake.
The reptile was in the very act of striking at its victim ; hor-
ror and dismay filled every soul, when the report of a gun
was followed by the fall of the wounded snake. Looking in-
,

JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 155

voluntarily toward the place occupied by the artist, he was
seen for a solitary instant, with his eyes eagerly bent upon
the lady and the extended piece in his hand. Thus he stood,
however, only for a moment, for the next he was in their
midst, and supporting the fainting figure of Neva Cameron.

When the appalling danger which had arisen, lived, and
passed in a moment, was over, joyous congratulations, grate-
ful] thanks, and merry laughs prevailed.

The stranger’s gallant intervention was a sufficient card of
introduction. He received their encomiums with modesty,
yet with an ease, grace and dignity, which won all hearts.
He very quietly managed to introduce himself as Mr. George
Morland, a youvg débutant in art, who having heard much
of the beauty of the wild nature of the South, had stolen a
few weeks from sterner duties, to see and enjoy for himself.
In return, Mr. Vere besought him to accept the hospitalities
of “Il Capannetto,” during his further sojourn in the neigh-
bourhood. This kind offer Mr. Morland accepted, in so far as
a promise to be a frequent and unceremonious visiter at the
cottage. As Mr. Vere had already Mrs. Vere to protect, he
made over Neva to the guidance of the stranger, who did not
seem to consider himself thereby in the least possible degree
imposed upon.

Mr. Morland opened his port-folio to the gaze of his new
friends, and by the pleasure they extracted from his beautiful
works, afforded them a grateful finish to the day’s enjoyment.

What were Neva’s own feelings towards the stranger we
cannot tell, for she scarcely parted her lips, save in a few ar-
dent words of thanks for his timely service. We may, though,
record, that her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the enthusias-
tic and judicious observations with which he unostentatiously
accompanied each sketch of the points she bad just visited.
But we must lift this sacred veil no higher; the day, also,
156 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

waneth, and doubtless Doctor Quotem and Miss Woodlette
are impatiently awaiting the party’s return. Leaving them
to pursue their path at pleasure, we shall pass onward, and,
ere they arrive, take a glimpse at the not uninteresting events
with which the day had been chequered in the experience of
the recreant couple.

CHAPTER XI.
THE EXCURSION—CONTINUED.

WE return to the couple dropt by the way-side in our last
chapter’s visit to the cataracts. Well, and how did the young
Thespians enact their parts in their wide green-room of Na-
ture’s play-house? As was very natural, the early moments
of their téte-d-téte, were somewhat awkward and constrained,
and “the pure well of English undefiled,” which should have
glided through coral aqueducts, lost its way and oozed from a
couple of invisible-grey eyes and another pair of very proper
cerulean. Neither, perhaps, could have told the pourquoi,
but very true it is, that a feeling of embarrassment was mu-
tually felt. Quotem, at length, when wearied of quoting
Childe Harold with his eyes, and from them looking “love
to eyes which spake again,” turned to that ever available
fount for lovers—the verse of Tom Moore,—and pointing to
the environing beauties, gently whispered, “Surely he must
be a misanthrope indeed, who can feel other than happy amid
such scenes as these:

‘Here generous nature has spread o’er the scene,

Her purest of erystal and brightest of green,
Here lives the soft magic of streamlet and hill !—
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 157

But why, Miss Woodlette, should I vary the verse; why
should T not read it truly, and so, truly speak—why not say
with the poet that this is not all—this crystal, and green,
and streamlet, and hill—
‘Ob! no—there is something more exquisite still !

This something, as the bard so sweetly tells in his song, is
the spiritual charm, thrown over all by the presence of those
who can understand and share our pleasure, and this finish-
ing delight, I know, I possess in your companionship and
sympathy, Miss Woodlette.”

To this very pretty speech of the doctor’s, Miss Woodlette
had nothing to reply; she, therefore, smiled properly, and
Quotem continued, until the converse quickly grew mutual,
unconstrained, confidential, and affectionate. What its tenour,
dear reader, is of very slight subserviency to the purpose of
this history ; sufficient, therefure, be it for us to know that to
themselves it was of such interest as to steal away the hours
unperceived, until the day waned, without once recalling to
their thoughts their purpose of paying their respects to the
unknown residents at the neighbouring cabin. This design
might not have recurred at all, but for aglimpse they caught
of the form of the younger of the stranger-ladies, hastening
homewards, and the fall of a few drops of rain, speaking of
an approaching shower, They reluctanuy turned from the
sweet spot in which the last hours had sped like moments,
into the path leading to the cabin.

Not far had they thus walked, when their attention was
suddenly arrested by the sound of voices, one of them not un-
familiar to their ears. The speakers were not perceived,
until a break in the dense under-growth which edged their
path, enabled them to descry, in one, the person of Mr. Jo-
seph Shelton, and, in the other, one of the strangers who had
lately arrived in the vicinage. Unless they retraced their

14
158 JOCASSEE 5 OR IL CAPANNETTO.

steps some distance, and even then sought an untried path,
nothing was left them, excepting to remain as they were, or
interrupt Mr. Shelton and his friend, by passing directly be-
fore them. This latter procedure delicacy forbade, helped
out, it may be, with a slight alloy of less honourable motive
—curiosity. Thus they were made, nolens volens, eaves-drop-
pers in the coming dialogue.

“ And why, sir,” asked Shelton in an angry tone, and ap-
parently in continuation of a previously commenced discourse,
“why, sir, have not these letters and messages been conveyed
to me before? Why is it that you have been here so many
days, and have neglected such important affairs ?”

“The little delay, sir, will, I hope, prove of as little conse-
quence ; but even that would not have occurred, but for an
adventure which turned up on the very day of my arrival,
and while searching for you ?”

“ Adventure! Of what nature ?”

“Why you see I was speeding on, as in duty bound, when
suddenly two brilliant eyes rested full upon me, and I was, as
by irresistible magic, fascinated and glued to my place.”

Shelton shuddered, and gazing carefully and half fearfully
around him, remarked—* You had a fortunate escape in some
way ; the reptiles, I am told, are numerous and dangerous.”

“ Ha, ha,” returned the other, “you are very right, Mr.
Shelton; the reptiles are very dangerous; old mother Eve
found that out, so she caught the trick and transmitted it to
her daughters. The creature from whom I suffered was one
of the most charming sylphs you ever beheld. Iam told
that she is killing the summer here, with the aid of an old
crone of a ma.”

“Oh, a lady in the case, aye ?” observed Mr. Shelton, with a
sneer.

“Most sagely divined, sir; and what better game for a
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 159

gallant sportsman. I never start such deers without feeling
disposed to continue the chase. At least, in the present in-
stance, I could not resist the temptation, so there is the full-
length reason why I have not delivered you my unwelcome
messages earlier.”

“Pshaw! This, I fear, is not the first pair of eyes which
has caused you to sleep over your duty.”

“Nay, sir, I understand you, but in that allusion you
wrong me: I was really blameless.”

“Well, well; spilt milk is not worth tears; as that is not
to be mended now, let us make the most of. what is left.”

“Well suggested, sir, and your honoured father’s plan I
consider a most capital one.”

“Yes; nothing promises better—if we can only carry it
out. The letter which he speaks of sending to Pearson, will
doubtless do the business with him, and that is the same as
doing it with Neva. There is, indeed, no time to lose; I
must turn lover in good earnest, and this little piece of senti-
ment must be mine. Mine without delay! Yes, her happi-
ness must not be postponed: neither must mine: he, he !
now is the time in which we must enjoy life, ha, ha! She is
my wife, and then we have a good strong string to hold him
in, if he should turn up! he, he! Isay, Brown, the old fel-
low’s a man of genius! Aye ?”

“Oh, most decided genius.”

“Keeps a bright look-out for A, No. 1.! We; Us & Co.
Aye?”

“A most careful watch.”

“Not so damnably methodical in the choice of ways and
means—aye ?”

“A most liberal-hearted man in such things—most libe-
ral. The plan is an excellent one, sir, but will the lady con-
sent? There’s the rub!”
160 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

“No rub at all. Will she consent? She must consent,
The governor has doubtless shown Pearson, her guardian,
very cogent reasons for exerting his influence and authonty ;
reasons which will stir him to move heaven and earth to fur-
ther our designs. But we must be careful that he does not
discover the great importance we attach to them. That, how-
ever, is my business. Your's is to keep your eyes open for
anything which may offer.”

“ That, sir, I promise you; and yonder is a most capital
offer. You see her, tripping along there, plucking flowers
upon that ridge to the left! By heaven, a perfect gazelle! [
must be off in pursuit! Good day, and goud success, sir !”

“Stop ; one second more—where do you live ?”

“In a cabin nut far distant.”

“ And this Hautleroy, ia whose employ I was to find you
—where is he?”

“Hautleroy ?—O, yes; at the time I undertook this bu-
siness, he was coming here, and I offered bim my services,
but—”

“*But’—what ?”

“ He was not so much pleased with my looks, as you are,
sir; and, besides, found adventure some where else.”

“The engagement, then, was not made, and you came
here alone ?”

“You have overlooked the post-scriptum upon your fa-
ther’s letter, sir-—the scrap upon the outside.”

“Ah, yes! ‘P.S. My messenger tells me that the gen-
tleman in whose employ you were to meet him, has made
other arrangements.’ Well, sir, let me advise you to be
careful in your hunting, and not trespass too boldly upon
private preserves, and also to be extremely short-sighted, and
troubled with a most treacherous memory, if we should hap-
pen to meet in any other company than our own. You un-
derstand me, sir?”
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 161

“Oh, never fear me. Both my eyes and my memory are
the very worst in the world. Do you believe it, sir, I met a
creditor some time since, and for the life of me I could not
recognize him without glasses; and to another one, I one
morning promised to pay a bill, but as fate would have it,
before night I actually forgot all about it. These infirmities
cause me great annoyance, sir. I very much doubt, now,
whether I should remember to re-pay you, if you should have
the kindness to lend me ten or twenty dollars, of which I
stand much in want.”

Mr. Shelton took the hint, to test the strength of his
friend’s memory ; and the fellow, pocketing the coin, posted
off in pursuit of the lady to whom he had called Shelton’s
attention—the fair demoiselle, of whom we have already
spoken, as having attracted the notice of Doctor Quotem and
his companion.

CHAPTER XII.
THE EXCURSION—CONCLUDED.

Dorine the preceding dialogue the interest of the listeners
was most deeply rivetted, but at the time no opportunity was
allowed them for speculation. The clouds grew blacker, and
the rain-drops fell faster, besides which, they descried the
other portion of their party at a distance, and hastening, like
themselves, towards the cottage of the unknown. Mr. Ste-
phen Shelton had also detected the group, and was making
all speed to join them.

Rising a little hillock in the path, they again observed the
errant demoiselle, now seeking shelter within a natural rocky

14*
162 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO,

recess, from the shower, which appeared to be falling with
great vivacity in her neighbourhood. A few moments more
brought them up with their friends, but not until Mr. Ste-
phen Shelton had gained the spot, and uttered a hundred
regrets at the business which had compelled him to desert
them so suddenly in the morning, and at his ill-luck, in the
search which he had been since so industriously making
after them. He took his position by the side of Neva Came-
ron, with such a privileged air, such an “of course”-ative
manner, that Mr. Morland had as little difficulty in reading
his relation towards her, as Mr. Shelton intended he should
have, and though Mr. M. still continued his escort, he man-
aged, very gracefully, to allow the new-comer the principal
share of the duty.

The eager inquiries of the ladies, for the result of Quo-
tem’s explorations, reminded him of the weather-bound dam-
sel, and his proposal to seck the cave and accompany her
home, was carried with acclamation. The execution of this
arrangement was hastened by a shrill cry which at the very
moment reached their ears.

“ Hasten, hasten!” cried Miss Woodlette, as Merriton,
consigning bis charge to the care of Morland, bounded over
the hills, “speed, Mr. Merriton, for your life! Ob, that vil-
lain !”

At these interjections, Shelton cast a searching and un-
quiet glance upon the speaker, but she was too much ab-
sorbed in the situation of the maiden to notice it, and he
turned away, unsatisfied.

All speed was now made, and the group quickly reached
the place from which the alarm had come.

Entering the recess, of which we have already spoken,
they perceived Arthur Merriton supporting in his arms the
insensible form of the young girl, whose cries had brought
JOCASSEE;} OR IL CAPANNETTO, 163

them thither, and tenderly bathing her brows in the waters of
the pellucid rivulet trickling down the rocks.

When her consciousness returned, and her astonishment at
finding herself in the midst of so many new faces had less-
ened, she informed them that her fright had been caused by
the abrupt entrance, into her retreat, of a stranger, whom she
had more than once before observed watching her steps.
Who he was she could not tell, and those who could have
thrown some liyht upon the matter, for their own reasons
forbore to do so. To the paity was now added the elder of
the unknown ladies—the mother of the terrified lass—who
having heard her daughter’s scream, had come with frantic
speed to her aid. When assured of her child’s safety, she
found words to thank the strangers for their kind attentions,
but exhibited little desire to place herself under further obli-
gation, or even to improve the acquaintance thus commenced.
The invitations to become a visitor at the cottage were but
coldly received, and even failed in drawing from her a recip-
rocation of the courtesy. Soon after her arrival on the spot,
observing the eyes of Shelton rivetted upon her, she had drawn
more closely over her face the thick hood which she invaria-
bly wore. This manceuvre, however, had not been executed
until Neva Cameron had distinctly identified the features
with those of her unknown adviser in the city, and recalled to
her memory that personage’s farewell words—* We may meet
again unexpectedly!” But, as the lady seemed not to re-
member her, Neva herself exhibited no signs of recognition.

As the storm had passed, and the day was declining, the
party continued their homeward walk, leaving Mr. Merriton
to accompany their new friends to their cottaye ; and, indeed,
even this much of escort appeared quite against the will of
the elder, and would hardly have been accepted of any one
less persuasively urgent than was Authur Merriton.
164 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

In the evening, when the party was again assembled at
Il Capannetto, far less hilarity than usual prevailed. Neva—
what with the unusually assiduous attentions of Mr. Shelton ;
what with her remembrances of the day’s incidents, and her
watchings of the interest Mr. Morland took in her friend,
Margaretta, to whom all bis thoughts seemed for the evening
devoted ; what, indeed, with this, that, and the other remin-
iscence, revery, speculation, fear, and hope—had very little
gaiety of heart to spend.

Miss Woodlette could no longer refrain from dreaming of
the why, wherefore, and up-shot of the day’s occurrences ;
and, of course, she was company for none bui herself.

Arthur Merriton was equally abstracted. Perhaps he was
tracing, in his mind, an auto-biography of his heroine of the
“recess!” Very certain it is, that he was more than once
observed to take from his pocket—no, from his bosom—a
withered bunch of wild flowers, upon which he gazed with
much interest; and equally sure it is, that this identical
bouquet was lying at the stranger-lady’s feet, when he first
came to her aid. Now, whose fairy fingers might have
plucked and clapsed those flowerets? whose sweet smile
might have rested upon them? whose ruby lips might have
pressed them? Ah, reader, whose, indeed! And why,
Arthur Merriton, why so sad ?

Even Heartless—Heartless, the satirist of sentiment, sobri-
ety, seriousness, and sadness, somehow managed to fall into
a meditative and sullen mood. Had the fair Ellen been un-
gracious? No. Had he, too, laid up a withered nosegay in
sighs and lavender? No. Was his “ heart sair for some-
body ?”? No; he suffered from

“ The venomed stang, .
That shoots the tortur’d gums alang ;
An’ thro’ the lugs gies monie a twang,
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 165

Wi gnawing vengeance,
Tearing the nerves wi’ bitter pang,
Like racking engines !”

From the various wettings through the day, and the shower
at night, he had picked up that pleasant companion, the
toothache—not the “ toothache” of the braggart “ Benedict,”
but the “hell o’ dire diseases all.” And where is the man
who can be merry with the toothache? Gods! he’d crack a
joke upon his coffin-lid, and laugh in the sleeve of Lis shroud !

Quotem was the only one who exhibited any gaieté de
cwur, perhaps from a malicious enjoyment of the hors de
combat state in which he saw his evi] genius, Heartless. Ilis
spirits rose with the general depression around him, and
when the opportunity——as we shall narrate—soon after pre-
sented itself, enabled his genius to conceive, plan, and execute
a manoeuvre, which repaid him for all the trials of the day,
and many previous ones, and completely turned the tables
upon his friend Heartless. The poor victim of the toothache
could bear it no longer, and nothing would do, but the
offender must come out root and branch. Quotem was the
only available operator; and, despite the little claim the
sufferer had upon his good offices, his professional services
were solicited. The doctor mumbled over some scriptural
passages, touching “returning good for evil,” and the like,
and consented to accept the office. At hissuggestion, Heart-
less agreed to his securing his hands behind the chair, seeing
that the rebel tooth was a staunch veteran, unused to such
rough treatment as was preparing for it, and as a sudden
move during the operation might result dangerously.

As Quotem secured the patient, a malicious twinkle played
around his mouth, deepening as he drew forth bis forceps,
and almost breaking forth into a smile as he thrust the instru-
166 JOCASSEE 5 OR IL CAPANNETTO.

ment in the victim’s mouth, and fumbled about, to his pro-
tracted uneasiness and pain.

“ Halloa, Doc!” he at length gasped, “ You are waking up
the wrong bone there !”

“Not at all, my dear fellow !” replied the doctor, and an-
other and arougher tug wrung out a deeper groan. Suill
another pull was followed by a laugh from the manipulator,
and a triumphant whisper in the victim’s ear, of “only a
third extract, my dearest friend, from your favourite book,
‘Tricks upon Travellers !’- he, he, he !”

The pain he suffered, the taunts of the doctor, the titters
of the whole assembly, made the patient furious, but he was
well secured, and no room remained for escape. One more
raking tug, followed by the malicious whisper of “snake!”
completed the rage of the hapless victim, and convulsed the
spectators. At the same instant, Quotem held up to the
public gaze a tooth, not the aching one, but as sound a
grinder as ever threatened tough goose, and gravely present-
ing it to Heartless, suggested to him to preserve it among
his “catalogue of pickled curiosities!” He was at length
released, and perceiving that the laugh was universally and
fairly against him, he had the wise forbearance to pocket the
joke, secretly vowing a terrible repayal when opportunity
offered. But, alas! for him, the matter did not end here.
Through that eventful summer it was never permitted to
sleep, but was eternally hinted, whispered, and spoken, until
it became to him as sore a theme as was the bantering of
Prince Hal—to the valorous multiplier of the “ men in buck-
ram suits,” or the Laird of Monkbarns’s vivid recollections of
the Phoca—to his sporting nephew, Hector ; or simple San-
cho’s hateful reminiscences of the Don’s terror on the event-
ful night of the fulling-mills—to that mighty man of La
Mancha!
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 167

CHAPTER XIil.

THE FIRE,

Repearep efforts were fruitlessly made to allure the stran-
ger-ladies from their seclusion. In their dilemma, the Il
Capannetto party were one evening assembled in grave con-
sultation upon the subject, and Mr. Heartless and Mr. Merri-
ton, who had been formally appointed a committee to devise
some harmless stratagem, sufficient to compass their wish,
were ¢very moment expected to enter the drawing-room
with their report.

Whatever their ingenuity might have promised, the desired
end was accomplished, and doubtless with more certainty, by
an unforeseen accident. Scarcely had the very able commit-
tee arrived, and opened their lips, when the general attention
was caught by faint sounds borne upon the breeze, evidently
from a distance, and no less certainly, induced by circum-
stances of distress. A moment longer, and the appalling
cries of fire! urged them towards the piazza, where a sight,
impressive at any time and place, but more especially terrible
in the deep quiet of the midnight hour, and in the silent,
lonely woods, far removed from every hope of human aid—
filled every soul with alarm and horror. A brilliant column
of lurid flame sprang from the very heart of the adjoining
wilderness, the light made the intenser by the contrast with
the frowning ridges and mountain peaks, whose chilly black-
ness it sufficed to reveal.

“Tt is their house!” exclaimed Merriton, in frantic alarm,
and breaking the deep silence which the unusual and fearful
scene had for a moment produced.

“Truly so,” rejoined Heartless, who could always be suffi-

’
168 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO.

ciently serious when the occasion required. “It is the cabin
of our unkvown friend and her pretty daughter. Quick!
speed ! Shelton, Merriton, Quotem! your horses, and away
with me! There is no hope of saving the house, but we can,
no doubt, render important service to the sufferers from the
unhappy casualty. Let us hasten! This isa dreary hour to
be cast pillowless and houseless into the wild wouds !”

Preparations for departure were made with electric haste,
and the four gentlemen urged their steeds to the utmost.
They were rapidly approaching the tield of the fire-king’s
triumph, when they detected the sound of steps in their
vicinity. The steps were stealthy, and seemed to be hastily
retreating, but in the stillness of the hour and place a breath
would have betrayed itself to the ear. Gazing in the direc-
tion from whence the noise came, they saw, by the aid of a
stream of light at this instant cast around them by the burn-
ing pile, the figure of a man, and bearing in his arms, what,
from the light snowy drapery which fluttered in the night
breeze, appeared to be a female figure. The stranger paid no
heed to their salutation, but bounded on with all possible
fleetness in another direction from the one they were pursuing,
Thus disregarded, they used no farther ceremony, but push-
ing forward soon reached the man, and peremptorily demand-
ed who he was and what he bore.

“For God’s sake, gentlemen,” he replied, “hasten on, if
you would save life! leave this lady to my care; I have
perilled my life for her, aud will take it upon me to convey
her to a place of safety.”

“ Ah!” exclaimed Merriton, who had dismounted, and by
the aid of the fire-light which still surrounded them, had
approached the stranger’s burthen, and recognized the un-
conscious form of the heroine of the recess—“Oh ! it is—
it is—she !”
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 169

“What! our fair inconnue, Merriton ?” rejoined Mr. Heart-
less. “Egad! she bas her share of adventure!” and then
addressing the stranger, “ But, I say, my dear friend and
fellow-citizen, it rather puzzles me to account for your inter-
est in the fair lady, and still more, to reconcile your desire to
serve her, with the direction you appeared to be fullowing,
when the cottage in the valley is the nearest, and in fact the
only neighbouring asylum. What think you, gentlemen ?”

“Tn faith ‘’tis strange, ’tis passing strange,’ as Othello has
it,” auswered Doctor Quotem, and then gazing full into the
man’s face (who was none other than the gentleman he had
before overheard in conversation with Shelton) he continued,
whispering in his ear a variation of the speech of the suspici-
ous Seyd to Gulnare, in the Corsair—

“‘T have a counsel for thy private ear:
I do mistrust thee, man!”

“Bah !” interrupted Mr. Shelton, at the same time casting
a meaning glance and angry frown upon the fellow, “ this is
no time, Quotem, for your cursed classics; we must instantly
decide upon the destination of the lady.”

“And that,” said Mr. Merriton, “can of course be no other
than for one of us to take her with him upon his horse, and
hasten on to the cabin, where we can pick up the other occu-
pants and arrange for their transportation to the valley.”

“And that duty,” observed Mr. Heartless, proceeding at
once to place the still unconscious form upon Mr. Merriton’s
horse, “ belongs to you.”

Mr. Merriton made no objection to the arrangement, but
was instantly in the saddle, and disposing his fair burthen
before hin with as much ease and tenderness as the circum-
stances allowed, they then continued their ride to the scene
of the fire, with sundry characteristic words of farewell from
each, to the gentleman whom they had so kindly relieved,

15
170 JOCASSEE; OR IL OAPANNETTO.

and who gazed on them with a bewildered air, uncertain ex-
actly what to say or do.

The cabin, of but little extent or value indeed, was, as they
expected, burned to the ground. The family were gathered
about, some actively busied in arranging the few things which
lad been saved, some lamenting their luckless fate, or gazing
on the burning masses in stupid amazement, as though not
fully conscious of what had happened. The visitor had just
discovered the absence of her daughter, and was frantically
searching for her, and rending the air with her cries of an-
guish, at the thought that she had perished in the flames,
Beholding her a second time safe, and under the protection of
our party, the mother was profuse in her expressions of grati-
tude and obligation. When the offer of a home in the valley
was made her, she no longer hesitated to accept it ; as, indeed,
no resource was left, but for the one party to tender the hos-
pitality, and the other receive it. Upon enquiry as to the
cause of the conflagration, nothing satisfactory could be learn-
ed, each one being profoundly ignorant of the existence of
any fire or light in the cabin, from which it could have sprung.
The march was now taken up for I] Capannetto, but the
matin hours were drawing nigh when all heads were safely
disposed upon its kindly pillows.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE FAIR INCONNUES.

Tuus, as we have seen, accident accomplished for our
friends that which their utmost ingenuity would most likely
have failed to effect. The fair inconnues were now among
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 171

them, and that not for an hour or a day, but in all likelihood
for a protracted period.

Until the return of their friends from the burning cottage,
all eyes in the valley were sleepless, with fear and expecta-
tion, and the arrival of the strangers was welcomed by every
one with the kindest sympathy and love. After the passage
of a few days, Madame de Montfalt and her daughter Cecile
de Montfalt—for by such names they bad at once introduced
themselves—seemed well content with their new home, and
freely participated and sympathized in the passing interests of
the time. Yet despite this courteous and flattering deport-
ment, no insight whatever had been made into their past
history, over which they managed to throw a veil, yet with
such perfect good breeding that it was rendered almost in-
visible while doubly impenetrable. The very few hints which
the innate delicacy of each mind had suffered them to make
to Mademoiselle Cecile, as the more approachable of the two,
were repelled with such mingled graciousness and dignity,
that no one was sufficiently presuming to intrude his curiosity
farther. The elder lady, who had for some years been more
or less an invalid, was so much prostrated by the excitement
and exposure following the late catastrophe, that it was only
at rare and brief intervals that she left her own apartment, so
that, as yet, there was very little familiarity established be-
tween her and the gentlemen of the cottage. Besides this
physical indisposition, she very quickly betrayed an antipathy
for society, and a more than usual love, in one of her nation
and period of life, for retirement and the companionship of
her owa thoughts. It required but very slight penetration
to see that she was a lady of gentle birth and polished breed-
ing. She was, also, but with less positiveness, thought to be
a widow, perhaps subsisting upon the wreck of former wealth,
scattered by misfortune, and which misfortune had induced
172 JOOASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

the griefs which seemed now to have weaned her from the
world and its pleasures. Whatever her sorrows, she made
them no bar to the happiness of her daughter, whom she per-
nitted freely to follow the natural bent of her young heart,
in sharing the amusements and pleasures of her new com-
panions.

The portrait of Cecile de Montfalt merits a separate can-
vass, and so we must draw her, at full length—not bodily,
(at least not farther than the form and feature may be irfalli-
bly considered the index of the inner temple—the soul,) for
such a spirit of revolt is there in the varied taste of mankind
to any absolute standard of physical loveliness and perfection,
that however truly our pencil might impress the embodi-
ment of our own ideal, we n ight fail entirely in realizing that
of others. Let each reader, then, sketch the mien, the height,
the hair, the eye, and lip of Cecile de Montfalt, as may best
suit his fancy, while ours, the safer task to picture forth that
inward beauty “ which passeth show ”—in which effort we feel
certain that, while following the purer affections of our own
heart, we shall fail in painting to the love of no man—since
in moral loveliness there exists but one infallible standard of
excellence, and that standard, however scoffed at, still ac-
knowledged, felt, respected, and worshipped by all.

The peculiar and irresistible witchery in the character and
person of Cecile de Montfalt, was a happy and most singular
commingling of the zephyrous fragility and ethereal grace of
the Sylph, with the voluptuousness and reality of the Hebe:
the self-mistrust, and shrinking modesty, and simple air of the
village maiden, with the courtly ease, beauty, and dignity of
the Venus. This rare union—alone, in our fancy, equal to a
perfect whole—was the happy result of certain most felicitous
causes.

Born under the enervating influence of luxurious and indo-
JOCASSEH; OR IL CAPANNETTO. 173

lent life, she had all that extreme delicacy of figure which
marks the child of what is called “gentle birth.” This deli-
cacy, instead of being suffered to degenerate into feebleness
and disease, had been strengthened and invigorated—not
brutalized—by the judicious exercise of a country life—thus
the Hebe and the Sylph. She was naturally of a retiring and
shrinking temperament, of a disposition the most amiable,
and possessing a tenderness of heart bordering upon religious
devotion—-a trait in woman’s nature, to every heart the most
womanly, and which indeed, alone, gives her her empire over
the stronger sex—a trait which makes her possession of reli-
gious feeling so indescribable a charm, and fully reveals the
deep philosophy in those lines of the poet, where, speaking of
the insufficiency of worldly beauty and endowments to com-
plete the female character, and the absolute need of the addi-
tion of religious sentiment, he says :

“ The light spring-flower may scarcely bow

Beneath her step, and yet-—and yet—

Without this meeker grace she’ll be
A lighter thing than vanity.”

This unassuming and relying nature in Cecile had, from her
earliest infancy, been under the watchful monitions of one
possessing principles of rigid and unswerving truth—a soul
imbued with the most earnest love of the beautiful, real, and
ideal—a mind of varied and polished culture—and manners,
faultlessly accomplished. She was the core of her mother’s
heart, and that mother had watched over her darling child by
day and by night. In her waking hours the unwearied teach-
er had striven to assimilate her charge more and more to the
perfect Being in whose likeness she was made; and, in the
silent night-watches, she had knelt by her innocent pillow
and earnestly besought the source of all spiritual beauty to
bless with his blessing her holy labours. And her fervent
15*
174 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

prayer was heard, and Cecile grew up a phenomena in her
sex—lovely in person and mind, yet, even if conscious of the
truth, without one tinge of vanity, selfishness, or pride.

Thus while she would have created what is called a “sen-
sation” in the gayest city salons, how much more so, when
thrown so unexpectedly in the midst of the little knot in the
seclusion of Jocassee.

She speedily became a favourite, and from those who could
appreciate and love nature and truth, received the most assid-
uous devotions. Arthur Merriton was, of course, ever by her
side ; and though she appeared unconscious of displaying
partiality, his society was, evidently, the most grateful. Per-
haps this was because she felt herself better acquainted with
him, he having been the first introduced to her, and the earli-
est to render her kindness.

With Neva Cameron, especially, she soon cemented a co-
partnership in heart. The two girls might well have been
taken for twin sisters, so very striking was the resemblance of
character—Neva differing from Cecile only in that slight
conventional air which her more extensive acquaintance with
the world and its seemings, had thrown around her. Both
might be typified by the sweet and fragrant violet—the one,
long exposed in the artificial atmosphere of worldly inter-
course—the other, but just culled from its quiet repose be-
neath the shade of the green hedge row. They rambled to-
gether, communed together, read from the self-same page of
poetic achievement in heroism, love, and truth, and drank
the same cup of nature’s ambrosia, until Mr. Heartless face-
tiously persisted in considering them only one person and
soul, and himself to be labouring under some optical illusion,
when two distinct forms filled his eye.

The classical Quotem, when called upon to notice the inti-

mac ravel remarked, “ Yes! another ‘Hermia’ and
’ g y ?
. Helena,’
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO, 175

‘Both warbling of one song, both in one key ;

As if their hands, their sides, voices, and minds,
Were made incorporate. So they grow together,
Like to a double cherry seeming parted,

But yet a union in partition,

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ;

So with two seeming bodies, but one heart.’ ”

‘We have now, reader, presented you to Cecile de Montfalt.
Welcome her to Il Capannetto, and rest assured that the in-
fluence of so good a soul can be for no other than good.

CHAPTER XV.
MR. HENRY HAUTLEROY,.

Ir is now time that we turn our thoughts again to Henry
Hautleroy. Ostensibly so, we mean, for that that gentleman
has in reality received his due quota of attention all this time,
the reader knows as well as ourself, he not having failed, long
ago, to identify him with the artist, Mr. Morland.

From you, kind reader, it was no part at all of our design
to veil this identity, as you have easily perceived. Hautle-*
roy’s associates, however, being less familiar than you and
ourself with his designs, did not at all suspect him of being
any other than simply Mr. George Morland. The change
which absence, and the long lapse between the years of early
youth aud manhood, produce, were all sufficient to render his
incognita perfectly secure. The motive for bis present course,
the reader will readily detect, remembering his youthful fancy
for Miss Pearson, and his meditated “ play” to test the sin-
cerity of her implied attachment.
176 JOOASSEE OR IL CAPANNETTO,

Wishing, in a spirit of romance natural to him, to realize
his early dreams, and yet entertaining vague suspicion of Miss
Pearson’s entire worthiness of his love, his design was to
watch her conduct, and pay her his court, when her demea-
nour would be entirely uninfluenced by any of the glittering
adventitious attractions which he possessed.

Thus far, his observation had not been very satisfactory,
perhaps the less so, as her faults appeared in a stronger light,
contrasted as they ever were with the more lovely traits of
Neva Cameron, whom his heart had often whispered much
more realized his ideal of female excellence. Perhaps this
regard for Neva held deeper root in his fancy than he was
aware; but if so, at least two good reasons operated for its
present suppression. First, his moral obligation to Marga-
retta, which he was resolved not to violate without cause, and
her many dazzling charms, her beauty, wit, and accomplish-
ments, were not such as to lose their force in a day; while,
in the second place, he believed Miss Cameron the willing
affianced of Mr. Shelton.

On arriving in the vicinity of Jocassee, with his servant,
Brown, who accompanied him,—though, to preserve bis em-
ployer’s secret, he had denied his connexion with him, to Mr.
Shelton—he took possession of a cave in one of the wildest
parts of the adjacent hills. Here he passed his time, until
after his introduction to the valley party, which, as we have
seen, took place by accident earlier than he had intended.
This cavern was of huge interest and endless labyrinthian
passages and chambers. It was, moreover, a place difficult
of access, even when known, which it happened to be but by
very few. He had selected it for his abode, not from any
Quixotic expectation of need of availing himself of its advan
tages of seclusion and safety, but from his ardent love fot
such spots, and its harmony with the romantic part he was
enacting.
JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO. Wi

In this rude, subterranean Alhambra he sat, on the second
night after the fire, and soliloquized much to this effect.

“Faith! I fear my adventure will prove but profitless.
Here have I been playing Asmodeus in a small way fora
whole fortnight, with little or no success. Would that the
limping demon were here, and would take me for his Cleofas,
that I might seize the skirts of his satanic mantle, and fly with
him to the presence of my Margaretta at her most unguard-
ed hours, and thus learn her real nature and sentiments.”

“What am I to make of this Merriton? As far as Mar-
garetta is concerned, I fear I have some little cause of jea-
lousy, though no farther ; for though he may, as they tell me,
have been her abject slave, this Cecile de Montfalt is, I fancy,
a living refutation of such an assertion now. She is as beau-
teous as my wildest reveries, as accomplished as I could de-
sire, apparently amiable, and, seemingly, not averse to me.
Not averse to Henry Hautleroy? No, by the powers, not
averse to George Morland! Ha. ha! a very flattering con-
clusion I have arrived at, certainly! Very flattering to Heury
Hautleroy that she is not averse to George Morland! Egad,
my play has no bottom to it, for what proof of love for Henry
Hautleroy will it be, if she should accept the hand ofa poor
devil of a painter y’clept Morland! Stop, stop! This much
of satisfaction it will be—that her heart is too noble not to
be won by aught than rank and fortune. If she will wed a
penniless unknown for himself alone, Henry Hautleroy is
content to be that man. Yet let me, with Sir Philip Sydney,
‘look within my heart,’ and speak. Do I rea'ly love, can I
love Margaretta with the intensity of which my soul is capa-
ble, and is she one to make a similar return, with less than
which I could never live. Surely this plotting and doubting
is no part of that absorbing passion! Yet, my course is de-
termined, and once more to my play !”
178 JOOASSEE 5 OR IL CAPANNETTO,

“Now rises the form of Neva Cameron—why is it she is
always so much in my thoughts? Is she a stranger to me,
or have we met before? Surely her whole expression forci-
bly reminds me of some previous vision, actual or imaginary !
Can this faney of mine be nothing more than one of those
shadowy revealings of some past time, in which

‘Mem'ry seems to have caught a gleam

From a life whose term is o’er,

Leaving the soul in the mystic dream,

That it has lived before ?
Certainly this impression of mine must have some foundation
in reality! It cannot be that with that sweet face ‘ my spirit
has dwelt when my frame was far away? It might be so,
for I have lived often in dream-land with bright fancies, of
which she might be the embodiment. And so her happiness
is to rest with that unlovely personage, Shelton? I could
wish her a more hopeful destiny !”

At this point of our hero’s speculations, he was aroused by
a neighbouring noise, and looking up he perceived that his
valet, Brown, had entered the apartment.

CHAPTER XVI.
PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT.

WE now pass, with but slight notice, over an interval of
some few weeks. In that period, the guests at the cottage
watched with interest the culminating and deeline of Mr.
Morland’s devotion to Miss Margaretta Pearson. They finally
settled down into the very just conclusion that the gentle-
man’s suit had proven hopeless.
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 179

Following this supposed repulse, Mr. Morland had turned
again, and apparently with more heartiness, to the side of
Neva Cameron. This heartiness was responded to by Neva,
far more deeply than she was, herself, aware, and quite enough
for the chagrin and jealousy of Mr. Stephen Shelton.,

This position of affairs was the result of the passage of the
few weeks of which we spoke at the opening of our present
chapter; but at the precise moment of which we now write,
there was in this course a decided ebb. Miss Pearson’s gra-
ciousness towards Morland was resumed and redoubled,—her
whole efforts seemed now to be bent to replace him at her
feet! The secret of this contradictory conduct was, neither
more nor less, than a discovery on her part, of the real name
and position of the incognito, through the treachery of his
servant, Brown. This fellow, who had discovered Miss Pear-
son's designs upon Hautleroy, thought, by serving ber, to
further his own interests with Cecile de Montfalt,—interests
which were now publicly known, since Brown had been lately
admitted into the society of the cottage, and countenanced
tliere, even by Morland himself, who feared to endanger his
own incognito by provoking his servant. Brown revealed his
employer’s secret to Miss Pearson, upon the express stipula-
tion that she should lend her influence to his success with
Cecile. This Margaretta the more readily promised, as it
opened to her the way of balking the hopes of her old admi-
rer, Mr. Merriton, whose whole heart was now given to Miss
de Montfalt. Brown served himself in a similar way with
Stephen Shelton, who saw in the secret,—when in the posses-
sion of Margaretta,—a means of withdrawing his rival, Mor-
land, from Neva Cameron.

Jealous, and not without cause of this rival, Shelton urged
the fulfilment of his engagement with Neva; and the arrival
180 JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

of Mr, Pearson, which occurred about this time, was followed
by the report, that the wished for consummation approached.

Neva’s apparent willingness to this arrangement, while it
precluded objection, did not stifle conjecture and fear. The
uneasiness of Miss Woodlette and Doctor Quotem, particular-
ly, increased, when they coupled her forced calmness with the
conversation they had, on their visit to the Falls, overheard
between Mr. Shelton and Brown. The result of their reflec-
tions was, a resolution to communicate their fears to Mr. Mor-
land, whom they had learned to esteem, and on whom they
could depend as a sincere and honourable friend of Neva.

Their communication awakened new emotions in the heart
of Hautleroy, since it, for the first time, led him to think that
Miss Cameron’s love had not been bestowed upoa Shelton—
and that there was yet hope of winning it for himself, and
such a conquest, now fully learned, was an end deeply affect-
ing his happiness.

Miss Pearson’s renewed kindness was fruitless, as he, by a
fortunate accident, had become fully informed of her knowl-
edge of his secret, and knew, therefore, the spring of her ac-
tions. ;

About this same period, another incident occurred, pro-
ductive of more than usual excitement at the cottage. Mad.
de Montfalt and her daughter having made an excursion to
a neighbouring village, accompanied by Shelton and Brown,
instead of returning, had, from the report of the gentlemen,
received letters from the post, which demanded their imme-
diate presence in Charleston, and had proceeded directly by
the public route to that city, sending their apologies for so
abrupt a departure from their friends. Conjectures as to the
motive of their visit, were, of course, rife in the valley, but no
one dreamed of questioning the Lonesty of the story.
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO, 181

CHAPTER XVIL
NEVA CAMERON AT THE ALTAR,

Tue various details which hed, from day to day, delayed
the nuptials of Neva Cameron, were at length passed, and the
very hour of the ceremony drew near. Mr. Shelton, senior,
had arrived at the cottage to be present on the occasion. Mr.
Morland had resigned ail hope that his old friend, Carrolton,
would join them in season, although he had written to say
that he might very quickly expect him. Neva had waited in
vain for a reply to her communications, addressed to her
friend, Mad. de Montfalt, in Charleston; and, whom she
could not help thinking, possssed the power of saving her
from the sacrifice she was about to make. Whether her fan-
cies were visionary, or not, no reply came to her messages,
and she at length prepared to obey the imperative pleasure of
her guardian.

As she passed to the drawing-room on the eventful night,
the poor girP’s steps faltered, and she pressed heavily on the
arm of her guardian, while a half stifled sigh told the inward
anguish of her soul.

“Take courage!” whispered Mr. Heaton but in tones
which seemed to belie his words; “take courage, and you
will be happy. Be assured that he loves you, and —”

Here his companion interrupted his speech.

“Speak no more of it,” said she. ‘“ Nothing can better
make my happiness than in contributing to your’s. I owe
you every thing, and even this step is justly due you, since
you attach to it such importance.”

At this manifestation of deep affection the old man seemed
struggling to restrain the words which were about to break
from his lips; and he had even taken an involuntary step

16
182 JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

backwards, when Mr. Shelton appeared to relieve him of
his charge. After a moment's hesitation, he resigned her to
him, with a look mingled of various stirring passions, and
they passed into the midst of their friends assembled in gay
coteries in Mrs. Vere’s parlour, where awaited the minister
who was to cement this ill-omened union.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ADVENTURES AND SURPRISES.

Oovr attention is now necessarily called to the movements
of astranger in the vicinity of the valley. The adventurer
was none other than our old acquaintance, Carrolton, who, in
compliance with his promise to his whilome friend, Hautle-
roy, was on his way to greet him at the cottage.

The night was dark, and the traveller, having lost his path,
was rambling fruitlessly among the rocks and hills, which
was the more vexing, as it promised to detain him, until too
late fur the bridal hour, even then rapidly approaching.

“This valley of my friends,” soliloquized the traveller, “is
as difficult of ingress as that of the Abyssinian prince was of
egress. I am as completely lost in these intricate wilds as
the poor babes of blessed and blackberry memory. I fear I
shall be reduced to the necessity of seeking shelter for the
night, and deferring my search until morning.”

. While thus speaking, his horse stopt abruptly before a
mass of rocks, which, in the dim lizht, he managed to resolve
into the mouth of a cavern,

“ Thanks, good Erebus !” he exclaimed, “ this is not so bad
aturn; for here, at least, I can await the dawn in safety ;
JOCASSEE; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 183

and perhaps, after all, as I cannot be far from the valley, I
may congratulate the bride, and supply her with an adven-
ture at the breakfast table to-morrow.”

So saying, the old gentleman, who had been coaxing him-
self into facetiousness, alighted from his wearied steed, and,
after fastening his bridle to some neighbouring twigs, entered
the cave, where, with the aid of some matches, happily about
his person, and some dry wood and leaves, near at hand, he
soon managed to kindle a cheering fire.

In a very short time, this manner of passing the night
became too monotonons for him, and, providing himself with
some pine torches, he sallied forth with the intent of explor-
ing his subterranean shelter. Interested in the various beau-
ties of the place, he quickly traversed passage upon passage,
unconscious of the flight of time. While wholly absorbed
in the examination of a palisade of stalactytes of enormous
proportions, his ear caught the unwonted melody of a female
voice. Astonished at the occurrence, he listened for some
moments to its reverberations, vainly essaying to solve the
singular enigma. But at length he became conscious that it
was what D’Israeli calls “a great fact,” and, as such, the
herald of other sober facts, which very rationally invited his
investigation.

From the circuitous nature of the passages, he was often
uncertain of his route, having such various doublings to
make, that the voice appeared alternately nearer and more
remote. In this uncertainty, the voice, too, having entirely
ceased, he suddenly descried, through a crevice, the faint
glimmer of alight. Following this guide, he speedily found
himself within the limits of a small chamber, most strangely
secluded, occupied by two personages; the one, as the lamp
served to show, a lady of elderly years, and the other in the
bloom of girlhood. It would be difficult to say which of the
184 JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO,

parties, thus so singularly confronted, was the more aston-
ished, or whether the fear or surprise of tbe ladies predomi-
nated. Be that as it may, it is very certain that joy was
their only emotion, when they were persuaded that in the
visitor they saw only a protector and preserver.

The prisoners, for such they were, were none other than
Madame de Montfalt, and her daughter, Cecile! A few
words sufficed the stranger to explain his position, and the
ladies to sketch briefly the train of circumstances which had
placed them in their singular abode. How Shelton and
Brown, after bribing the coachman, had drawn them from
their carriage, ona false pretence, and, then conducting them
to the cavern, had made them prisoners; the one, doubtless,
actuated by a suspicion that the elder lady was possessed of
some secrets inimical to his interests; and the other from a
mad passion for the daughter ; and how they had since been
threatened with a worse fate, unless their several demands
were answered, and secresy in relation to the past solemnly
sworn. This mad conduct, on the part of their persecutors,
they could consider only as the actions of desperate men.

“Let us thank heaven,” said Madame, “ for the kind aid
sent us in the person of our stranger friend, and avail our-
selves of the chance of escape while it offers; for should our
jailors return, our friend will inevitably share our hard fate ;
besides, the very deed, which they feared I might prevent,
may be even now consummating, and I would sacrifice much
now to prevent it.”

In a few moments, the traveller conducted the ladies from
the chamber, and, for some time, traversed, with assurance,
the path by which he had approached. Soon they were for
an instant at fault, but, luckily, the neighing of his horse
provided a new guide, and, finally, the gleams of the fire
which he had left at the mouth of the cave served to convey
JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO. 185

them forth in safety. Here the ladies were prevailed upon
to mount their deliverer’s horse, while he followed them as
esquire with the vivacity of younger years. The ladies,
during their residence in the vicinity, had, fortunately, ac-
quainted themselves with the multifarious windings of the
roads to the valley, so that but a very brief period was con-
sumed in traversing the short distance that intervened be-
tween them and their home.

As good fortune would have it, they arrived just in season
to confront the marriage party, at the very moment when
Neva was upon the point of uttering the vows which would
have sealed her unhappy fate.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE DENOUEMENT.

Norutne could have been more striking than was the vivid
tableau vivant enacted by the bridal group, upon the abrupt
appearance of the new guests. As the shadow of a shade is
weighty substance to the conscience of the guilty, so the
countenances of Shelton and his co-adjutors clearly showed
that they regarded the interruption as nothing less than the
index of detection and defeat. A smile of joy lighted the
features of the bride when she so unexpectly saw her friend
spring, spirit-like, to her rescue. Among the guests, general-
ly, were seen, in their intensest expression, all the emotions
of surprise, curiosity, fear and hope.

This period of deep silence was broken by the voice of
Madame de Montfalt, speaking in tones trembling, yet com-
manding.

16*
186 JOCASSEE 3 OR IL CAPANNETTO.

“T forbid,” she cried, “ this wicked and unhallowed sacri-
fice. Look at me, James Pearson, and recogaize the unfor-
tunate wife of your vile associate, that grey-haired old man,
who, upon the verge of the grave, is adding to his crimes.”
And, as she spoke, she cast a glance upon the elder Shelton,
which, if possible, added to the speechless astonishment into
which her appearance had thrown him. “ Not satisfied with
the murder of the hapless Carrolton, but you must condemn
his only child to a worse fate—to—”

“My daughter! my child!” exclaimed the benighted tra-
veller, rushing from the corner, where he had thus far stood
unobserved, and clasping in his arms the fainting form of his
long wept child. ‘The first glance told me so, even against
my thorough conviction of her death. Yes! she is my child!
There, again, are the very features of her sainted mother!
There is my self-same darling infant of years long past! O
God! I thank thee for thine infinite goodness, in this blessed
restoration of my child !”

‘We pause not for the fruitless task of painting the recep-
tion, among the guests, of this additional surprise.

Pearson, at the first glance, recognized in the stranger, the
injured friend of his youth, Carrolton ; of whose death, it had
been the bane of his life to think himself the ¢ause. Uttering
ascream of joy, he threw himself at his feet, thanking heaven
that he was still alive, and praying of him his forgiveness for
the injuries he had done him and his hapless child.

“ Dead !” ejaculated Mr. Carrolton, recognizing and greet-
ing the compaction of his youth. “ And so you really thought
me dead? Well, I believe you. But they,” and heie the
old man’s eye rested sternly upon the persons of the elder
Shelton, and his former jailor, Brown, (for such, indeed, that
personage was,) “they did not! They knew too well for
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 187

their infamous ends, that I lived; and they know well, how
wretched they made, and still would have made that life !”

Seeing the fatal turn affairs were taking, the two worthies
thus singled out made a quick effort at escape from the
room, but, at an earnest gesture from Carrolton, they were
secured and committed to the servants for custody.

“T thought my hand had slain you!” said Pearson, re-
suming the thread which the arrest of Shelton and his tool
had broken. “ For that villain persuaded me!”

* Ah!” added Carrolton; “I see it all as I have before
suspected it. I see the motive of his reporting my death, of
his casting the deed upon you, of my imprisonment, and even
now, ot his eagerness to wed his son with my daughter !”

“ Your imprisonment !” exclaimed Mr. Pearson.

“Yes,” answered Carrolton, and here he succinctly nar-
rated all the events which be had before confided to Hautle-
roy, and in which the reader is fully instructed.

“Through the miscreant Shelton’s representations,” said
Pearson, when Mr. Carrolton had finished his strange details,
“T have, through life, thought myself the author of your
death, and it was only upon the threat of his denunciation,
that I assented to the marriage of his son with my darling
Neva, for such she truly is to me. I took her first into my
family, hoping, by my kindness to her, to atone, in some
degree, for my injuries to her father. It was to save my
family and herself too, that I wished to avoid the fatal expo-
sure which the villain made the penalty of my refusal of his
demands. The motive of his wish for this marriage I have
never divined.”

“ Rest assured,” interrupted Mr. Carrolton, “that it was
simply to secure to himself my stolen wealth, or at least to
screen himself from public exposure, in the event of my
188 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO,

return and discovery of his frauds and crimes; which result
he naturally feared after my escape from his clutches.”

Madame de Montfalt, with weeping eyes, at this point,
offered her congratulations to the lost father and child, and,
tendering her hand frankly to Pearson, prayed his forgive-
ness for the harsh opinion she had, undeservedly, entertained
of him.

“ My unhappy husband,” said she, “imposed upon me the
same story as upon you, but I accidentally became acquainted
with the fact of his fraudulent possession of Mr. Carrolton’s
property, and this, added to his many former vices and
crimes, compelled me to demand a separation, which he
readily granted, and since which I have lived, until lately,
among the scenes of my youth in Guadaloupe, and upon
means which I possessed, independently of him. What
made my horror of my husband’s conduct towards Mr. Car-
rolton’s family greater, was, that my friend, Neva’s mother,
was a cherished friend of my younger days. About a year
ago, a friend, returning from Charleston to Guadaloupe, hap-
pened to mention that he had observed in the street a young
lady singularly resembling our former companion, Mrs. Car-
rolton; and he further stated that, upon inquiry, he learnt
that she was an inmate, under the name of Cameron, in the
family of a Mr. Pearson. This circumstance, of the great
likeness, coupled with her residence with Mr. Pearson, of
whose share in this unhappy affair I was well aware,
persuaded me, despite the dissimilarity of name, that he
had seen none other than the daughter of my friend.
Upon this conviction, early in the summer I arrived in
Charleston, and by means of which Neva is aware, satisfied
myself of the truth of my belief. Here another surprise
awaited me, when I recognized my long lost son as a suitor
JOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO, 189

for her hand. I loved my son, and was willing that his
wishes should be gratified, if they were true and bonourable-
But my observations soon convinced me, that not love, but
some motive of deep and unholy policy actuated him, in
connection with her guardian, whom I imagined I had so
much cause to detest and fear. I resolved to watch narrowly,
and if a sacrifice was designed, to save the victim. For this
purpose I took up my abode in this vicinity, fullowing Neva
and her friends. By accident, I became an inmate in the
family itself, and was soon so entirely convinced of the just-
ness of my fears, that my course was finally resolved upon.
It must have been an instinct of my designed interference, or
perhaps a knowledge of it, even, which, in part, prompted
the desperate violence from which I am but just rescued.”

Here the speaker related her adventures to the wondering
audience, since her reported abrupt departure for the city.

Mr. Carrolton and his daughter poured upon her their
ardent thanks, and then taking his daughter’s hand, the gen-
tleman led her towards the ct devant artist, Morland.

‘‘ And now, my child, even above the services of our dear
friend, Madame de Montfalt, we must place those of this
gentleman. It is to him I owe my release from prison, be-
sides many other invaluable benefuctions. Indeed, our joy-
ful meeting to-day must, next to heaven, be ascribed to my
good friend, Hautleroy.”

“* Hautleroy !” exclaimed Neva, in surprise. ‘“ Hautleroy!”
screamed every one in a breath, “ Hautleroy ! [autleroy !”

“Even so, my kind friends,” responded that gentleman, en
riant. “You must know,” he added, turning to Carrolton,
“that my residence here has been under the incognito of
Morland, a poor devil of a painter. I took a fancy, for cer-
tain reasons, to use that name as a sort of demi ‘ Gyges’ ring’
to render ‘Henry Hautleroy’ invisible, while among his
190 JOOCASSEE ; OR IL CAPANNETTO.

friends. Fortunately, no one detected my secret, excepting
my sweet friend, Margaretta, and she,” he added, turning
towards Miss Pearson, with a very meaning smile, “ only
detected it when too late.”

Excepting by Margaretta, who bit her lip until it rivalled
the snow in whiteness, this remark was uninterrupted and
passed unnoticed.

In return for the thanks of Mr. Carrolton, he said with a
serious air, ‘‘ Not a word more, my dear sir. I would ask a
greater acknowledgment of the little aid it has been my great
happiness to render you, than words alone can convey. If
Miss Carrolton will transfer the regard which I flatter myself
she feels for the poor Morland, to the unworthy Henry Haut-
leroy, I shall not fear to make the demand upon your bounty
which my heart prompts. The boon I would beg,” he added,
grasping Neva’s unresisting hand with earnestness and emo-
tion, “is no less than the angel I have happily aided in re-
storing to your love !”

In response to the mute prayer for assent, which now
spoke in the eyes of the suitor, Neva suffered her fair hand
to remain passively in his grasp, with a sweet smile fully in
unison with the action of her father, when he pressed their
united hands in his double clasp, and scarcely found voice to
utter, “I thank thee, oh God! that thou hast given me, not
one child only, but two! May thy blessing ever rest, as
now, upon my daughter and my son !”
JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO. 191

CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION.

Bur little remains to be told of the romance of this adven-
turous summer,

In the loss of Henry Hautleroy, who, before leaving the
“Tittle cottage,” greeted his sweet Neva as a happy bride,
and of her old suitor, Arthur Merriton, who, at the self-same
hour placed a ring upon the finger of his beautiful Cecile,
Miss Pearson-received a mortification of her unamiable pride
and selfishness, which the wildest dissipations of fashion have
since been unable to efface. Rather than subject Mr. Pear-
son and his family to the exposure which would necessarily
follow a judicial inquiry into the conduct of Shelton and his
tools, those miscreants were set at liberty; but, in a few
days, the elder villain, seized with a fit of remorse for his
crimes, made a deposition by which Mr. Carrolton was fully
indemnified for his stolen wealth, and then with his own
hand ended his wretched existence.

Madaine de Montfalt, who still retains her maiden name,
which she had resumed after her separation from her hus-
band, resides with her daughter and her happy husband. |

Mr. Carrolton is domiciled in the mansion of his children,
and, the author is informed, spends at present much of his
time in frolicsome gambols with a little cherub, said to be a
third portrait of his regretted wife.

Both Heartless and Ellen Vere duly won their wagers, but
-(fortunately or unfortunately, the author leaves it to the
reader to determine) their play became earnest, even unto the
exposing of the redoubtable Benedict to all the quips and
quirks lang syne bestowed upon his great namesake.

Doctor Quotem proved to the full conviction of our amia-
192 JOCASSEE } OR IL CAPANNETTO,

ble friend, Miss Woodlette, that he could not, by any possi-
ble means, resign her pleasant companionship, and it is now
whispered that more than once he has been overheard, on
moonlight nights, breathing in her ready ear the very touch-
ing verses of Thomas Moore :
“O1! if there’s a bliss above all that the minstrel hath told,
*Tis when two are link’d in one heavenly tie;

With brow never changing and heart never cold,
Live on through all ills and love on till they die !”
THE PHRENOLOGIST;

OR,

THE TACTICS OF DOCTOR CRANIUM.

 

PART THE FIRST.

 

In the county of , in one of our Southern States,
there lies embedded in quiet repose, and far removed from
the bustle and turmoil of the great world, a little town, bear-
ing the musical and appropriate style and title of Seclusaval.
To the denizens of this “happy village,” the sun had, “ within
the memory of the oldest inhabitant,” been accustomed to
rise and set, bringing, with his approach and withdrawal, the
regular alternation of day and night. Other equally novel
and strange occurrences had, for many long years, blessed the
eyes and stirred the hearts of the good people; but farther
than this, the proverbial monotony of village life remained
unbroken. Miss Priscilla Gossippa’s bow window invariably
made the same display, with the same old hat block, bearing
the prince of bonnets, occupying the centre pane, and flanked
on either side with junior stands, surmounted with the latest
style of caps, over and around which fell gay ribbands, in the
same lines of grace and beauty, and evincing, as always, Miss
Priscilla’s immaculate taste. The only variation was the
change once a quarter, in the fashion-plates which filled the
two outside panes, on either side of the caps ; for these were

17
194 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

substituted other two, cut from the last number of the Milli-
ner’s Magazine, which Miss Gossippa’s ‘‘emporium of fashion”
regularly imported from the metropolis. The arrival of this
journal was always an event in the village, and the day had
not passed before all eyes had witnessed the exhibition of the
fine arts, and pronounced their various judgments thereupon.
Miss Priscilla, also, never failed to make the annual altera-
tions in widow C.’s summer and winter hats, and her black
silk dress. She drank, too, the same quantity of black and
green tea, equally mixed, and delivered herself at the same
time, of the same amount ofscandal. Jerry Pipe, boniface of
the “ Lafayette Hall,” daily piped up all hands at the self-
same hour, and prepared the usual number of glasses for his
ante-breakfast customers, which he had been wont to do ever
since he first held the worthy and honourable post of land-
lord. Miss Seraphina Invallida, a young lady of nineteen,
and of delicate nerves, swallowed daily the same number of
Doctor Dubious’s strengthening pills, which she did when
she was a young lady of nineteen, ten years before. The
same tableaux vivants were always to be seen before the door
of Jerry Pipe’s hospitable mansion, and the several shops and
lounging places of the village. Indeed, the programme of one
day’s performance required only an alteration in the date, to
answer for that of every other. Occasionally a solitary tra-
veller and his steed stopped for the night, and excited a little
ferment, but years had fled since even one stranger had made
acquaintance, or taken up his abode in the place.

Quietly and happily sped the days with the humble and
unsophisticated villagers, but cHanes, that dire word which
hangs like a pall over all things mutable, was brewing, even
for Secluvasal, great and novel events.

It was a bright and balmy night in June, (every adventure
happens upon a bright and balmy night in June,) not very
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 195

many years since, that the weekly mail rattled up to the door
of the Lafayette Hall, with accelerated speed-and an extra
twang of the tin horn, evidently heralding the approach of
somebody, or something of some consequence. Scarcely had
the frightened dust settled quietly around the now indolent
vehicle, when the various tableaux, of which we have spoken,
vanished, and the performers congregated around it. Eager
was the curiosity, and not slight the excitement, when the
truth, the whole truth, appeared—the mail had brought
down a passenger, a live passenger, with bag and baggage to
match. That he must spend a whole week in the goodly
village, was very certain, for journeying in the mail, how—if
he sojourned at all, and that he would do so was clear—was
he to proceed before the next regulartrip? Talk of the wag-
ging of mad comet tails, and the fiery gambols of flashing
meteors—here was matter of speculation, worthy of village
curiosity, and high enough it ran; who, and what was he ?
What did he want? And where was he going? Was he
wild, or was he tame? Harmless or dangerous? Were ques-
tions on the lips of every man, woman, and child. But the
guest, apparently unconscious of the sensation he was crea-
ting, very cruelly, for that night, closed all the sluices of in-
formation as to his appearance and business, by pleading fa-
tigue, and taking immediate possession of his apartment, the
star-chamber of the inn.

The post-man was the only bulletin in this emergency, and
great was expectation, as he discoursed to them of his travel-
ler’s sociable and winning manners, of his “ power o’ learn-
ing,” and more than all, sundry hints of an intended prolong-
ed sojourn at Seclusaval, and possibly, a final abode in the
village.

To make a long story short, suffice it, that time satisfied
all their curiosity, and fully realized Jehu’s hints. Several
196 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

weeks fled, and Mr. Dobson, the stranger, had become almost
domiciled among them; charming them with his varied
knowledge of the great world without, and his willing man-
ner of imparting it to others. With the old men, he dis-
coursed oracularly but deferentially, upon the politics and po-
litical magnets of the country, with all of whom he was upon
an intimate and respected footing. With the old women, he
expatiated upon domestic economy, ethics in general, and the
great secret of bringing up children in the way in which they
should go. For the young men, he had recollections of many
a gay and mad adventure; for the belles, soft and touching
speeches—extracts from and criticisms upon the poets, and
glowing tales of fashionable life and love ; in all of which, he
himself, Mr. Dobson, had been a “ bright particular star ;”
and lastly, for the juveniles, he brushed up his reminiscences
of Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian Nights ; crammed his
capacious pockets with “ goodies,” and turning his venerated
knee into an express mail, initiated each little darling into
the modus operandi of
“ Riding cock-horse,
To Banbury cross.”

A great favourite did Mr. Dobson become, and soon he
knew the peculiar characters of all the people of Secluvasal,
and the region round about, better than they did themselves.
His inquiries, to be sure, came at times rather thick and fast,
and he had a habit of writing very much after his inquisito-
rial confabs. This fact, though a little suspicious at first, was
soon, however, attributed to Mr. Dobson’s philosophic eye and
mind; to his accustomed habit of great and close observation
and investigation, and to his peculiar position as an author,—
for it had escaped that he was a distinguished and learned
producer in the mart of letters, and in speaking of his inten-
tions touching a future residence, he had hinted his decided
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 197

satisfaction with Seclusaval, and the little consequence where
his abode was, inasmuch as his business laid with the great
metropolitan publishers, and could be transacted in a short
yearly visit, while the bulk of his time might be spent just
as well in one secluded nook as another.

A great change was soon visible in the habits of the good
people of Seclusaval. The number of loungers sensibly de-
creased. Mr. Dobson’s small travelling library was scattered
through the village. Inquiry for truth was set on foot. Am-
bition was fairly aroused, and a thirst for the knowledge which
gave Mr. Dobson such evident superiority, seized every soul.
Mr. Dobson, too, took care to increase the rising flame, by
discoursing with all his enthusiasm upon the blessings of in-
_ tellectual lore, and the unspeakable exstacies of an admission
within the hidden and mystic arcana of wisdom. He dwelt
glowingly upon the grand operations of scientific laws and
causes, and upon the rapid advance which mankind were
making in their mysteries. He adverted to the various novel
and startling theories, which the age was producing—some
he eulogized, others he condemned—particularly did he pour
out the vials of his wrath and ridicule’ upon the then young
doctrine of Phrenology, with its wonderful developments. Of
this science the people had before scarcely heard, never
thought, and now knew nothing, save what they gleaned from
Mr. Dobson’s abuse. The more violent bis condemnation
and sarcasm, the greater was the dignity which the matter
received in their eyes, and the deeper their curiosity. It be-
came the general theme of converse; the “ literary club,”
which Mr. Dobson had already formed, waived all other sub-
jects, and night after night debated and debated this one
theory. Mr. Dobson invariably had the negative of the ques-
tion, and maintained his position with such acrimony, that
his opponents (and all the villagers were among them) soon

17*
198 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

came to believe the truth of their own arguments. Mr. Dob-
son had opened their eyes to their dormant powers, and they
now took pride in showing their growth in knowledge by
wrangling with their tutor. About this time there came to
Secluvasal a new and beautiful hot-pressed volume upon the
very subject, written by the great champion of the science,
Doctor Dionysius Cranium. It was addressed to “J. Dob-
son, Esq., with the high regards of the author.” Accompa-
nying it, also, was a deferential and conciliatory note to Mr.
D. in the professor’s own hand, in which he apologized for
the liberty he had taken in addressing him, strangers as they
unfortunately were. He spoke in terms of praise of the great
power displayed in Mr. Dobson’s recent “ refutations” in the
World newspaper, of his beloved science, which he followed
by conclusive arguments (to all except Mr. Dobson) in its
support. He begged Mr. Dobson to give an attentive peru-
sal to his little volume, and hoped it would have the effect of
bringing over to the cause of truth, his (Mr. Dobson’s) great
and conceded powers. The note finally hinted the possibili-
ty of the doctor's even visiting Secluvasal at some future day,
and affording his esteemed, though personally unknown
friend, occular proof of his great doctrines.

This note and book, while it heightened the general defer-
ence for Mr. Dobson’s character and talents, strengthened the
belief in the minds of the people as to the truth of Phrenolo-
gy, and increased the violence of their opposing arguments.
Often was Mr. Dobson challenged to invite the doctor to Se-
cluvasal, and hear the matter fairly weighed and tested. This,
however, he obstinately declined, until a committee of the
people themselves addressed a note to the great man, solicit-
ing a visit to their humble village. Soon came a reply, in
which the doctor spoke of present ill-health, from the extent
of his arduous labours, and accepting at once the apropos in-
THE PHRENOLOGIST, 199

vitation of the “ enlightened community of Secluvasal, to the
country air and quiet of their beautiful village.”

PART THE SECOND.

Doctor Cranium’s promise was made in good faith, and
promptly redeemed; so promptly, that the committee ap-
pointed to receive him had the pleasure of discharging that
duty at the next arrival of the weekly mail. Their greetings
were hearty and respectful, and were returned by the débt-
tant with extreme condescension and cordiality. All were
urgent for an immediate display of his great powers, but this
the doctor begged to defer, for a day or two at least, until he
had recovered from the fatigues of his journey. In the mean-
while, he observed he should keep his room, both to gain the
repose so necessary to him, and that no previous knowledge
of his friends might lessen the conclusiveness of the facts he
should exhibit. On this latter account he begged, too, that
he should be introduced to no one of the villagers, and that
none, not even the landlord, would violate the seclusion of
his apartments. The doctor was retiring, when an officious
youth, with an ardour for the science, as great as his igno-
rance, detecting the retreating person of Mr. Dobson, laid
violent hands upon him, and insisted upon presenting him to
the stranger. The introduction, upon the part of the latter,
elicited earnest expressions of delight and pride, but his ur-
banity was returned with almost ill-bred coldness. This con-
duct not a little affronted the hospitable people, who now
began to regard the doctor in the light of a persecuted and
insulted man—a martyr to the truth ; and they felt disposed,
therefore, to receive him with increased confidence.
200 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

On the following day, the doctor’s meals were sent to his
rooms, and nothing was seen of him in the village. Mr.
Dobson, also, was almost as exclusive, and on his visits to the
table @hdte he wore an expression extremely thoughtful and
cross. This his opponents ascribed to the consciousness of
his approaching defeat aud their triumph. He was also pro-
bably offended that the stranger had been put into a room
adjoining his own, but they laughingly assured him that his
neighbour would not bite him—there,

To appease the popular curiosity as much as possible, the
doctor had, on the morning after the first day of his arrival,
caused to be posted throughout the village, a card announc-
ing a popular lecture for the ensuing day, in which he would
give a “succinct narrative of the rise and progress of the
wonderful and astounding science of PurenoLoey, most hap-
pily and truly termed the science of the human mind and
soul! At the close of the lecture,” the card announced, “ he
would present to the audience incontrovertible and miracu-
lous proofs of the truth of his doctrines, by examining the
heads of any present, and drawing therefrom a true picture
of character and feeling.” Below followed “ testimonials
from the highest sources of his deep and profound researches
in the subject; the invaluable light which his erudite mind
had cast upon its yet imperfectly known theories; and the
singular and unrivalled success of his demonstrations. These
testimonials he presented, not because they were required,
but as a matter of form, and that those who were ignorant of
his labours and fame—if any such existed in so enlightened
a community—might not be deterred from instructing them-
selves, by supposing him one of the thousands of charlatans
by whom the divine study was, unhappily, so much abused.”

In conclusion, the doctor candidly confessed that “he
thought the ‘labourer worthy of his hire,’ and that his lec-
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 201

tures and examinations must be remunerated, but the more
particularly so, as his contributions, in numerous ways, for
the advance and improvement of the science, were very great.
Still, in the present instance, he should reduce his fees to a
mere moiety of their usual amount, that all might enjoy the
benefits of his developments. The admission ticket, there-
fore, to his lecture would be only one dollar; the examina-
tion of a head, with a written chart of character, ten dollars,
or without the chart, only five dollars. Children and negroes
half price.”

All Seclusaval was congregated in the lecture room at the
appointed hour, staring with astonished eyes at the array of
plaster heads upon the table, with their mysterious intersect-
ing lines and figures. The doctor’s welcome, as he walked
with solemu dignity to the rostrum, must have been exceed-
ingly gratifying to him, especially as the assembled shouters
were chiefly of an age which put them in the most valuable
and profitable class of auditors. When the greeting uproar
was hushed, the orator, with artistic grace, made divers
changes in the geography of the casts, described sundry
curves with his spotless linen cambric, glanced at his repeater,
and, with a musical voice and polished action, unclosed the
portals of wisdom and let flow the stream of living words
which was to enlighten and electrify assembled Seclusaval.
In other phrase, he commenced his speech, and a brilliant
speech it was, judging from the frequent and hearty plaudits,
but it must find another reporter than ourself, for time forbids
our speaking of the eloquence of the exordium ; of the lucid
manner in which he traced the birth and growth of the
study ; of the singularly comprehensive definition of the
province of Phrenology; of his generous eulogium of its
high-priest, Spurzheim ; and, lastly, of the mighty results
202 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

that were to accrue to the world from its revelations—how
every character was to be instantly read, and how people
might thus safely court or avoid their fellow men, and how
each might know and pursue that walk in life which heaven
designed him to fill.

Suffice it, that when the lecture was concluded, and the
professor had first accurately traced the characters of Milton,
Bacon, Washington, a murderer and an idiot boy, by the
developments upon the plaster heads, the only question
among the audience was, who should first have the privilege
of obeying the Greek proverb, “ know thyself.” This honour
the doctor proffered, gratuitously, to Mr. Dobson, who had
sat a moody auditor of the lecture. Mr. Dobson at first
flatly refused to countenance such nonsense, but was at length
prevailed upon to accede.

As trait upon trait of Mr. Dobson’s character was unfolded,
the hearers, in silent wonder, acknowledged the diviner’s
skill.

“T find,” continued the manipulator, running his fingers
over the subject’s caput, “that the organ of Argumentative-
ness is prominent, together with all other organs which unite
and support its successful development. This, the audience
may say, I know well enough from what I have read of the
gentleman’s works, particularly those in which he labours,
and so ably, to controvert my own opinions. I admit it, and
I only mention, for your satisfaction, that here the organ is,
with all the prominence in which you would suppose it to
exist. But further—you have, perhaps, only seen this gen-
tleman in his mild and even moments ; you will hardly sup-
pose that Combativeness is as strongly developed as Argu-
mentativeness. Yet so it is, and if aroused, he will be as
ready to fight as to dispute. In fact, he is naturally very
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 203

quarrelsome, though his developments of Caution and Bene"
volence counteract the exercise of his pugnacious humour in
a great measure.”

“T beg to say,” here interrupted the subject, “ that your
last remark is satisfactory evidence of the weakness and pre-
tension of your doctrine. Your picture of my disposition is
utterly erroneous.”

“You imagine so,” was the mild reply. “But how seldom
we know ourselves. The organ I speak of, I see before me
as plainly developed as your nose, and I know that it cannot
lie. You are given to quarrel.”

“You are wrong, sir, wholly wrong—I do not believe one
word of your mummery !”

“ Patience, my dear sir. Time and occasion will furnish
you and others proofs of my assertion.”

“Tt never can, sir. I am not obstinate or quarrelsome, not
in the least degree.”

“You certainly are, sir.”

“Do you give me the lie, sir?”

“ Only in judgment, sir.”

“ Sir! you are an arrant imposter! a pitiful humbug!”
cried the patient, starting up, now fairly exasperated : “ and
there, sir, is my opinion of you,” he added, at the same in-
stant bringing his right foot in such unpleasant intimacy with
the doctor’s person, that that worthy gentleman’s bump of
Amativeness was enlarged until he kissed the floor. The
bully then proffered the same kind show of respect to any
individual present who would presume to endorse the doc-
tor’s obnoxious opinions.

Dire and instant was the confusion in the audience. All
tongues wagged against Mr. Dubson, and all sympathies were
active and eloquent in favour of the other party.

The doctor quickly regained his feet and his temper, and
204 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

said quietly, “that he forgave the ill-treatment of the gentle-
man, as, in his intemperate conduct, he had given undeniable
and occular proof against himself, and in maintenance of the
truth of his assertion that the subject’s disposition was pugna-
cious! The laugh against Mr. Dobson was general, and that
gentleman himself, a few minutes afterwards, advanced with
a very crest-fallen air, and seeming suddenly to repent his
uncourteous action, very magnanimously apologized for the
affront ; confessed his skepticism shaken, and that he was
now ready to see and hear with a mind less prejudiced.

Here was another triumph for the doctor, and he now swam
on the full tide of success. He announced that in his exami-
nations he should waive all introductions, and even decline
learning his subjects’ names, that all shadow of doubt might
be removed. Again the people glanced triumphantly at poor
Mr. Dobson. That gentleman stood near Doctor Cranium,
and when Squire Clarke took the patient’s chair, he—Mr.
Dobson—slightly closed his left eye. What the phrenolo-
gist thought of such singular conduct, is out of our power to
say, but certain it is that he observed it, and that he imme-
diately after glanced at a little roll of MS. before him. This
done, he revealed the lawyer’s character in colours so pre-
cisely the same as those in which it appeared to his neigh-
bours, that they were all flattered with their own insight into
the human mind, amused at the Squire’s expense—for he
was less flattered than others—and astonished at the opera-
tor’s wonderful power. Another subject came—and Mr.
Dobson closed his dexter eye. Doctor Cranium noticed the
restless action—noticed also his manuscripts, and then noticed
the bumps of his subject as truly as before. A third, a
fourth, and a fifth {customer presented, and Mr. Dobson’s
attitudes and motions were “ever changing, ever new.” The
doctor must have been annoyed thereby, for he never failed
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 205

to note each alteration. The people ascribed the ill-bred
restlessness to the working in poor Mr. Dobson’s mind of that
unpleasant emotion—conviction against one’s will. Thick
and fast the applicants came, and with almost divine insight
did the great Cranium open their heart-chambers to the
public gaze.

In one instance, only, the doctor seemed for a moment at
fault. A man came up, who dwelt remote from the town,
and very seldom left his own cabin. He was evidently a
stranger (and the only one present) to Mr. Dobson. When
he took his seat, Mr. D’s. nervousness vanished ; he looked
very anxious, very blue, and his lips got up a particular and
pressing affection for each other. The doctor’s face reflected
his puzzled visage. He looked inquiringly at him, from him
to his MS., and so back and forth several times, but evidently
without being satisfied. At length, Mr. Dobson’s head per-
formed an incipient shake, whereupon the professor fell to
work with an appearance of desperate resolution.

“T see,” he began, “ that on this head Courage is remark-
ably full, which trait will lead the possessor to—”

“Stop, mister! there you're out,” cried a voice proceeding
from one of the patient’s enemies—a bully who had an old
score against him, and had long sought in vain for an oppor-
tunity of settling it. “He is as great a coward, sir, as ever
walked the earth.”

“That he is,” added several corroborating voices.

“Patience, my friends,” said Doctor Cranium. “TI per-
ceive, also, that Caution is still more strongly developed,
which organ not only keeps the former in check, but entirely
subdues it.”

The explanation was satisfactory, and he continued—

“ Benevolence is large, which will prompt him to deeds of
charity, and—”

18
206 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

“The d—I it will!” cried another voice. ‘“‘ Every body
knows him to be the stingiest fist between here and eternity.”

“You are too hasty in your conclusions, gentlemen,” re-
turned the doctor, hemming several times at this new faux
pas. “Have the kindness to hear me out. I should have
said, that to nullify the organ of Benevolence, that of Acqui-
sitiveness exists in unusual strength. Its effect is to subdue
the generous feeling, and prompt him to a course of parsi-
mony almost miserly. My friends! The art I profess is one
requiring intense and unceasing study. In the first place, is
necessary, a singular delicacy of touch, only acquired by long
experience—in order to measure the extent of a develop-
ment; and secondly, great powers of comparison and judg-
ment, by which to contrast the various conflicting organs,
determine which has the mastery, and from the whole draw
truthful conclusions. Your ignorance of this nice fact has
made my art, for an instant, appear insufficient. The develop-
ment of one organ does not speak a man’s character, while
there is another, quite opposite, to counteract it. No more
so, than a person with a pocket full of money is rich, while
beside him stands his creditor to the full amount.”

Again the doctor’s star was in the ascendant; save in this
one instance,-he was in all completely successful, and during
the evening a large amount was added to his purse. His
fame circled the country round, and he reigned the lion of
the time. Every day increased his reputation and his wealth.
The ladies were received, and their characters drawn with
amazing gallantry, yet with stern truth—excepting, only, in
the case of Miss Seraphina Invalida, already introduced to
the reader. In this instance, the doctor was thought to be
partial, and to be actuated by some ulterior views, for he
endowed the lady with every virtuous and attractive trait
which his chart possessed. This graceful flattery, judiciously
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 207

applied at intervals, for several succeeding weeks; and aided
by other love nostrums, the management of which the doctor
thoroughly understood, had its due effect ; and, in the course
of time, the great Phrenologist, who had often postponed his
departure, was at length to take up his permanent abode in
Seclusaval, idolized by the people, and the happy lord of the
lovely Miss Invalida, and her more lovely acres. Mr. Dob-
son, in the meantime, had avowed himself a convert to the
powerfnl force of truth, and was now the doctor’s Achates—
his constant companion and champion. His reputed powers,
too, had dazzled the eyes of a fair daughter of Seclusaval,
whose face, though charmingly sweet, was far from being her
fortune. Proud were the good villagers to secure the society
of two such able and worthy men. The hour at length
arrived, for the foreclosing of the mortgages held by the dis-
tinguished strangers upon the hearts of the village damsels.
Preparations never before heard of in Seclusaval were made
for the double nuptials. The guests were congregated; the
blushing brides, in all the panoply of lace and satin and floral
gems, awaited only the appearance of the two Benedicts-elect
from their tiring room, when the noise of the abrupt entrance
in the hall of four additional and travel-stained visitors, called
away the smiling mammas and papas.

PART THE THIRD.

“Wer must apologize,” said the leader of the unbidden
guests, of whom we have spoken, when they were met by the
perplexed hosts; “we must apologize for our seeming inci-
vility ; but the matter is urgent. We seek two fugitives
208 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

from justice, whom we understand to be at present in this
house.”

“My good sirs! This is passing strange. This is some
singular mistake ; there never has been such persons as you
speak of in Seclusaval, much less in this house, and at this
time.”

“No, sir! no! They are here, though under what names
T don’t know—their assortment is so extensive. Hark! what
voices are those? Certainly the very chaps !”

“Nonsense, sirs!' These are the great Doctor Dionysius
Cranium, and J. Dobson, Esq., honourable and wealthy gen-
tlemen ; and at this instant on the eve of marriage with the
brightest stars of our village !”

“Honourable! Marriage! the scoundrels! Lead the way,
sir—silently ; they must not escape us! Not a word, sir.
I know the birds, and my warrant is all sufficient.”

Thus speaking, the officers—for such they were—followed
by the astonished and stupified hosts, and many of the
guests, moved noiselessly toward the apartment occupied by
the grooms. These gentlemen, it seems, carried away by
their visions of prospective happiness, had indulved too libe-
rally in thé sparkling cup, and forgetful of the French pro-
verb—“ les murailles ont des oreilles”—were discoursing
with an unreserve, and in a key very unsuited to their theme
and place of converse.

“Ah! ah! Dobson,” cried the metamorphosed doctor, as
he raised the cup to his lips, “ never have poor devils held
such hands or played them so well, as have we the last three
months.”

“Especially the face cards! ay, doc. That’s the climax of
our fortunes. To think of our turning wealthy Benedicts,
and ‘leading men’ in a quiet village. Here’s to the lovely
Seraphina! May she quickly consign you to your merited
fate, a—-noose.”
THE PHRENOLOGIST. 209

“My thanks, Dob.; our adventure would, indeed, be news
to some people. Let me pledge you the charming Lucy.
May she, too, soon lead you to your deserved doom, the
halter.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Another glass, doctor, to the poor gulls of
Seclusaval. You have played all your parts inimitably. Do
you know I feared that you would mistake some of my sig-
nals on our first night’s performance, and read the wrong
character ?”

“And I trembled, Dob., lest you had imposed too much
upon your memory, and should give me a wrong clue to my
MS. Egad! you must have improved your time before my
arrival. But you can win your way any where, my boy!
Your characters were compiled in a style worthy of Shaks-
peare’s searching mind. How did the copy of my treatise
and the letter serve you ?”

“Ha! ha! They came just in the nick o’ time ; they aided
my plot wonderfully. And that little chapter on Combative-
ness was a glorious coup de pied ? Ay, doctor.”

“To tell you the truth, Dobson, I thought you overacted
that part a little; your salute seemed more vigorous than
was agreed on.”

“Oh! ‘an error of judgment’ of yours, my dear doc.
But you know I had to make it a knock-down argument.”

“Well, well, Dob., never mind; it paid well; and now,
before we descend—”

“‘Before we descend, my prince of bumpists, here’s a
bumper to the mighty science of bumps, which has bumped
us into pleasant homes and bumping fortunes. Our friends
have treated us well, but they have had their guid pro quo,
for have not we supplied them liberally with characters,
and—”

“Tn so doing, have reserved none for yourselves, my

18*
210 THE PHRENOLOGIST.

beauties !” interrupted the startling voice of the officer, now
followed by the crowd into the room.

“Ay! ah! what—what is this, gentlemen? This is some
mis—mistake, sirs! What is your er—errand, gentlemen ?
We are Doctor Dionysius Cranium, and J. Dobson, Esquire !
. We—”

“ Oui, messieurs. Glad to see you,” added the officer,
with mock courtesy. “ How have you been since last we
met? Permit us, gentlemen, to feel your pulses—very irre-
gular—very ; suffer that steel to remain over them—twill be
beneficial—cool them down. You must accompany us, gen-
tlemen, to the public accommodations provided for all who do
the State such service as you have done. The public is
vastly interested in the health of such great men. They
must not waste the fragrance of their powers upon the desert
air of Seclusaval.”

So pressing were the invitations of the strangers, that Doc-
tor Cranium and Mr. Dobson were induced to accept them,
not only at the cost of a postponement sine die of the wait-
ing nuptials, but without even a farewell glimpse of the
deserted brides. Ah! ah! Life is a fickle jade—fickle as
a woman’s will; Fortune’s favourite holds all the honours
and trumps at one instant, and when but one more trick
is wanted to fill the game, not even a ten-spot is in his hand.

Seclusaval—* sweet, smiling village!” asad mortification
was the Phrenologist’s hoax to thee; but sadder yet—it un-
closed to thine eye a cold, black page in life, before unread,
of man’s deceit and the world’s damning falsity. It blasted
with a rude hand, and forever, thine ignorant and innocent
confidence in the purity and truth of thy fellows. It im-
planted within thy breast, and never to be eradicated, a
chilly jealousy and suspicion not only of the world without,
qut of thine own fireside friends.
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB;

OR,

LIGHTS AND SHADES OF LOCOMOTION.

 

Iv was the anniversary of our club—apropos—a word
here; a capital affair is our club— The Travellers’ Club.”
It is an organization which resulted, a few years ago, from a
romantic freak of a clique of merry fellows, “sons of for-
tune’—that is to say, sons of no fortune; aset of adven-
turers of that fated cosmopolitan, comet genus, who seem
doomed through life to make the world their oyster ; con-
demned, like the auctioneer’s chattels, to be eternally “ go-
ing ;” to stand ever ready with their “ boats upon the shore,
and their barques upon the sea.”

A good joke it would be—the telling of that same freak,
from whose ashes sprang the phcenix of our glorious club;
but I must, ea necessitate, deny the reader and myself the
pleasure of the recital. Suffice it, that the original members
of the society were, in early youth, boon companions and
tried friends. As the days of manhood stole on, they found
themselves, without exception, becoming confirmed. travellers,
and consequently seldom able to command each other’s
happy society as in days of yore. To obviate, as far as pos-
sible, this difficulty, and to keep the lang syne coal of love
alive and burning, some plan was demanded. Cogitating
212 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

the matter, the whole body was felicitously struck with the
“ Travellers’ Club,” and went forthwith into the adoption of
the luminous idea, determining that it should be the very
club by which they would ward off the threatened blow of
estrangement and forgetfulness among their once devoted
number. Oh! a glorious conception was the Travellers’
Club, and many a joyous hour and gladsome thought it has
yielded me in my varied peregrinations : God bless it! Our
president and secretary were the oldest members of the soci-
ety, and residents of the city, having attained the requisite
qualification—as we shall soon show—for the privilege of
“settling down,” where cars and steamboats cease from
troubling and the traveller is at rest.

This “qualification,” of which we speak, was the accom-
plishment of fifty thousand miles of travel; no member, un-
able to make that boast, being permitted, by the constitution,
to reside for a longer time than one year in the same place.
Our constitution further provided for the holding of an annual
meeting of the club, at which the officers, and always more
or less of the members, were present; these meetings being
held in the “Great Metropolis,” to which accident or design
was sure to lead some, at all seasons. At these anniversaries,
the secretary read letters from the absentees, each one being
required to address, annually, a communication to the club,
giving a sketch of his movements and adventures during the
past year, his then whereabouts, and future projects. The
members present, also, handed to the secretary similar docu-
ments. From these letters it was the secretary’s duty to
compile a bulletin to each absent member, containing a con-
densed synopsis of all the other sheets. In this manner, a
fall knowledge of the whole band was possessed by each.
The effect of this combination was a species of Masonic influ-
ence, by which a feeling of brotherly love was fostered and
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 213

cemented throughout the club. Did member meet member—
no matter where under the light of the blessed sun that meet-
ting occurred, and no matter if they had never before seen
each other’s countenances—the magic mention of the “ Tra-
vellers’ Club” made them instant and sworn friends. Our
president, I have said, had attained to the privilege of “ ces-
sation,” yet when he sat down, it was with a brow wreathed
in laurel. He had travelled “ a/Z countries all over,” and
could count his hundred thousand miles. A veteran rover
was he, and ardent were the glances of esteem and love cast
upon him as he filled his chair of office. And well too did
he fill that same chair. Upon the portraits of Humboldt,
Park, Jones, Laborde, Cook, Columbus, and other illustrious
men, which adorned the walls of the club-room, he gazed
with a look of fraternal love and equality, rather than of
veneration. Those of La Martine, Stephens, Catherwood,
Ross, Norman, and others—honourary members—he regarded
with a glance of mild approval and encouragement, and
fatherly affection ; but the god of his idolatry was an authen-
tic bust of the Wandering Jew, which stood on a pedestal,
the most honoured among all the canonized names around.
This immortal personage is the presiding deity and patron
saint of our glorious club; inductions into membership and
office are made in his name, and all oaths are sealed upon the
foot of the pedestal bearing his sacred form.

Besides the illustrious names recorded, our club-room
walls exhibit testimonies of respect to other renowned men,
who have deserved undying remembrance in the hearts of all
true rovers. The immortal Venetian is seen there, bearing
his matchless discovery—the mariner’s compass; Fulton is
pointing triumphantly to the wonderful steamboat; Jabez
Doolittle is going full tilt, the Lord knows where, upon the
top of his “first locomotive ;” a balloon is suspended, with
214 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

prophetic ken, over the presidential chair; Professor Morse
is there with his electro-magnetic wires ; and last of all, that
wonderful-magician, Mesmer, and his clairvoyante patients,
are seen penetrating, with wingéd speed, the remotest nooks
of the globe.

But, perhaps, reader, you imagine that so old a cruiser as
myself ought to have better learnt the art of locomotion,
than to linger so long at the outset. True; the circum-
stances of the case required me to introduce you to our club,
and yet with the club, per se, I have not to do. My aim was
to present a picture of the pleasures and annoyances of a
tourist’s life, and it seemed to me that I could not better
eflect my end, than by drawing upon the experience of such
profound professors of locomotion as are found in our society,

On the anniversary in question, it singularly happened that
over one-half of our number were assembled from the seve-
ral corners of the earth; a merry night was waning; the
annual business was accomplished, and the members indulg-
ing themselves in delightful, gossiping reminiscence. The
conversation fell upon the comparative happiness of the rover,
and he who quietly passes life under the same vine and fig-
tree. Many held, against all comers, that there was no life
like the traveller's life; while others, true to human nature,
contested this high eulogy, and vented deep dissatisfaction at
their destiny, and envy of the lot of those conversely fated.
At length, turning to a member who had not before spoken,
the secretary demanded of him his estimate of the enjoy-
ments of travel.

“Travel? well, really; I suppose it has its clouds as well
as its sunshine, yet I take it, the sunshine has the best of it.
Indeed, I don’t know but that the annoyances themselves, if
rightly met, are productive of the most genuine pleasure,
This is slighty paradoxical to be sure, yet I'll cite you an in-
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 215

stance, and I doubt not your own experience will lead you to
~ acknowledge the truth of my proposition. I shall not twat-
tle upon the sentimental doctrine of the necessity of sympa-
thy to the production of true enjoyment. Not a bit of such
gitlisn stuff: Laura Matilda go to the I only want,
not to be quite alone—just a few good fellows along, who'll
throw care to the dogs ; laugh at fortune’s rubs—the harder
the rub, the louder the laugh; and who’ll make themselves
happy and at home every where. My hotel, whether in the
north, south, east, or west, is, for the time being, my own
especial sanctum, as familiar as my boyhood’s home. In my
landlord, I invariably recognize'an old chum; and in the
chamber-maid, a favourite sweetheart. Egad! I’m ‘ at home’-—
perfectly—to all intents and purposes. Just such a man—a
man after my own heart—was Captain Bull. Captain Bull!
Ah! ab! He was a grand fellow! A right up and down,
square off philosopher. I saw it in his eye; I looked him
through and through in five seconds. We met for the first
time, as I then supposed, on board the steamer Kentucky, at
Baltimore. We were bound for the south-west, via Charles-
ton. It was in the year ’38, just when the universal preva-
lence of Yellow Jack in the South had caused a derangement
and uncertainty in the public conveyances to these latitudes.
I saw Bull enter his name. ‘ Captain Bull,’ said I, approach-
ing him and’ offering my hand, ‘Captain Bull—Jonathan
Ramble, at your service and desirous of your acquaintance.’”

“Ramble! glad to see you!” returned Bull, frankly accept-
ing my hand. ‘“ Ramble—Ramble—pretty large family. I
believe [ may claim relationship. I’m a Rambler myself.
The addition of the ‘r’ you see makes no difference. I’m

 

the larger man, and you have been to school? you know the
degrees? ramble, rambler, ramblest. Ay? you are positive,
I am comparative, and for superlative—gad! I have a ras-
216 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

cally nephew who can come in for that title. Like a par-
tridge, the villain began to run as soon as he had nibbled the
shell, and I have only caught a glimpse of him now and then
since, as he heaves in sight and out again, like that poor
Rotterdam merchant of cork leg celerity. But, as I was
saying, I’m glad to find that we are related. Let me wel-
come you to my boat, here—glad tosee you, Ramble; make
yourself at home !”

“Thank you,” Ireplied. “TI imagined this my boat, and
addressed you with the very same purpose of bidding you
welcome.”

“Ah! ah! a true, traveller you, Ramble. By the way,
you are bound southward of course. I hear that many
others of our family on board are similarly destined. Now,
the route is so broken up by this cursed fever, that I fear we
shall have difficulty in getting along, unless we submit to.
sundry impositions. This we might obviate by uniting in a
sort of company. Ay?’ I acceded, and the captain, with-
out any hesitation, hailed the steward and instructed him to
ring his bell, and request all passengers bound for and be-
yond Charleston, to assemble in the cabin, instanter. The
steward rang, and obeying the novel summons, a crowd of
Jaughing and curious phizes quickly followed Bull and myself
below.

The captain moved that his friend, Mr. Jonathan Ramble,
take the chair; which motion being carried, I was duly in-
stalled, and Bull, rising, explained the object of the meeting.
I pass over his speech, which was amusing enough; suffice it
to record, that he explained his wish to form an association
of the southern travellers, during the trip, for their mutual
and general benefit, comfort and amusement, as occasions
might render the society subservient to those ends.

The proposal was received with acclamation, and a com-
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 217

mittee, appointed for the purpose, in due time reported a
brief code of laws for the government of the association.
Twenty-seven instantly signed the bond. Bull was elected
captain ; Ramble, secretary ; another, treasurer; and a fourth,
baggage-master-general. To the last office, owing to its
arduous duties, a new incumbent was to be elected daily.
The captain’s field of duty is obvious. My own, as secretary,
was to keep and call the roll at every stage in the journey.
The treasurer’s duty was to purchase tickets for the associa-
tion, which he afterwards arranged with them individually,
at leisure. The baggage-master-general was required to keep
an invoice of all trunks, see them duly transferred from one
conveyance to another, and at each stage report to the cap-
tain. The association resolved itself into a standing commit-
tee of the whole, for the transaction of all business. Exhaust-
less was the mirth accruing from this novel movement, and
pleasant was the journey—under the administration of Cap-
tain Bull—from that hour to the close.
F At Portsmouth, our new officers were first required to
exercise their functions. The hour of departure having
arrived, the conductor of the railway train was preparing to
start, when our captain, backed by his company of twenty-
seven, demanded a pause until his officers had reported “ all
right.” A few moments after, the baggage-master-general
enteredywith advice that all baggage was duly stowed; the
treasurer arrived with tickets; the secretary called the roll,
which being regularly answered, Captain Bull nodded to the
conductor, the conductor rang his bell, and off we rattled,
scarcely able to tell who were most diverted—the loiterers
left behind, the new passengers on board, or ourselves.

At Halifax, in North-Carolina, we left the railroad for
stage-coaches—the Wilmington railway being at that time
far from complete. A night and a day did we jolt in those

19
218 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

same post-coaches, and many were the diverting incidents
which occurred, and which, unfortunately, I must not pause
to relate; not even, how sitting down to table and detecting
a soiled cloth, Captain Bull instantly required a clean one to
be substituted, before his company could think of eating;
nor, how arriving at a “ dinner house,” proverbially question-
able, we unanimously and en masse resolved not to dine, by
way of giving Boniface a hint to mend his larder. One
thing, however, I cannot possibly omit; we had occasion to
take tea at one of those rascally places, (it was on the Wil-
mington railway,) where their niggardly custom is, to set you
down and ring you up, before you have had time to swallow
three mouthfuls. Now, aware of the practice of this vil-
lainy in the house in question, we resolved, in the omnipo-
tence of our corporate strength, to administer a gentle rebuke.
We took our seats at a board, inviting enough in all respects,
yet, as usual, no sooner had we commenced upon the viands,
than that horrid bell fell ominously upon our ears. We
instantly left the room, every man securing one or more
dishes, with which he coolly walked off to the cars, while the
treasurer paid the bill, and politely informed the landlord
that his friends would eat their supper at leisure in the cars,
and leave the crockery, subject to his order, in Wilmington.
Wilmington—that reminds me that it is time I was there,
for there the utility and glory of our new association shone
preéminent. At Wilmington we expected to take boat for
Charleston; but we were disappointed at learning that for
three successive tri-weekly trips the boat had failed. It was
five o’clock in the morning when we arrived, and at eight the
boat was again due. Although resolved to proceed in some
way, we awaited the expected hour, before entertaining other
modes of locomotion. The hour came, but the steamer
came not. What was to be done? Something, certainly.
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 219

Captain Bull assembled his corps to consult upon the dilem-
ma. “To go, or not to go,” was the question, and to go
was the stern and universal resolve, “spite of big guns and
little fishes,” as Bull had it. ‘“ How to go?” then became
the query, and to answer this, a committee of ways and
means was appointed, to repair instantly to the wharves, and
procure any accommodation that offered, of the respectability
of a raft and upwards. While this committee was absent on
duty, another was appointed to communicate with seven gen-
tlemen, whom we understood to have been for more than a
week, awaiting the arrival of the Charleston boat. Our com-
mittee invited them to join our association, and take seats in
our councils, which invitation they readily accepted, swelling
our number to thirty-four strong. This by-play was barely
over when the committee of ways and means reported no
charterable craft in harbour, save the Cotton Plant, a half
condemned steamer. This hulk we could procure, at a rea-
sonable price, to convey us to Smithville, a place twenty-five
miles distant, on the sea-beach. At this point, it was sup-
posed probable that a pilot, or other boat, could be obtained
,to transport us to Charleston. The vessel was instantly
engaged, and ordered into immediate preparativeness. At
two in the afternoon we were to sail, and at one o’clock, pre-
parations for embarkation were made. Right merry was all
Wilmington that day ; Captain Bull marshalled his company,
and marched them slowly to the river ; the baggage-master-
general followed with all the drays of the place loaded, and
the rear was made up by hundreds of the citizens, rending
the air with their hearty merriment. Oh! it wasa glorious
time. Icould have gone at that moment to the bottom of
the deep, deep sea, with the rest. We thought not of the
prospective pleasures of a voyage, under such auspicious
circumstances, but hailed the “ Cotton Plant” as a veritable
220 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

ark, sent to rescue us from the flood of disappointment im-
pending over us. We embarked, and moved gallantly off
amid the laughs of our own party, and the boisterous cheers
of our friends on the wharves. Scarcely were we under way,
when, discovering other passengers to be on board than our
own corps, it occurred to us to demand their fare, and thus
reduce our individual modicum of the expense. Captain
Bull accordingly despatched a steward pro tem. to ring the
bell, and request “all passengers who had’nt paid their pas-
sage to step up to the captain’s office and do the same.”
The interlopers seemed ready enough to respond, and our
treasurer was about taking possession of the office, when he
found the commander of the boat already established there,
and gracefully receiving the called-for settlements. Having
chartered the vessel, we certainly considered ourselves enti-
tled to the extra passage money, but no chain of reasoning
could convince the master of the justice of our claim. He
merely pointed to Wilmington, and hinted his willingness to
take us back, if we repented our bargain. Our corporate
invincibility was in that instance—yet in that alone—insuf-
ficient.

Approaching Smithville, we were delighted to see the
Charleston steamer lying at the wharf, yet, in the absence of
all sign of life, we feared that she had put in there disabled.
Happily, it was not so; she had just arrived, and was about
proceeding with her passengers to Wilmington. Captain
Bull suddenly recollected that he had received instructions
from the Wilmington agency to request the steamer, should
he meet her, to send her passengers up in the “Cotton
Plant,” and return at once to Charleston with our corps.
This plan our captain, repairing on board, instantly commu-
nicated to the steamer’s commander. The commander agreed
to the proposal—his passengers exchanged decks with us,
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 221

and we slept on board the Gov. Dudley that night, and at
day-break resumed our voyage. ‘The captain of the Dudley
repaid our expenses in the charter of the Cotton Plant, and
in due time landed us safely in Charleston.

At Charleston, our party decreased considerably. At
Augusta, again we bade a hearty farewell to others, and by
the time we reached Mobile none were left, save Captain Bull
and I alone. Here the captain was to sojourn a few days,
while I was necessitated to proceed instantly to the Crescent
City. We, therefore, spent a merry night, pledged all the
absent members of our company, and acknowledged that we
had never had a journey more replete with little annoyances,
and yet more fruitful in pleasurable incident.

“ But,.my friends,” added Mr. Ramble, as the members
were about to comment upon his narrative, “ thereby hangs
a tale, a little sparkle of romance in real life, which it may
amuse you to hear. By a chain of incidents, too tedious to
detail, I at length discovered in Captain Bull, a long-lost
uncle, and Captain Bull, in your humble servant, recovered
his incorrigible nephew, to whom, I told you, he had assigned
the superlative degree in the family of the Ramblers. And
who should Captain Bull further be, but your worthy presi-
dent !—at that time a member of the Travellers’ Club, and
since, the means of introducing myself into your honoured
body.”

Some of the members, at this dénouement, looked incre-
dulously from Ramble to the president, as if afraid that his
narrative was, after all, only a—traveller’s story. The presi-
dent looked solemnly at the bust of the Wandering Jew, and
swore that his nephew’s story was gospel throughout. After
the digression produced by this unexpected recital was over,
the original theme of the lights and shades of travel was
resumed.

19*
2202 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

“Mr. Ramble,” said a second speaker, ‘“‘ possesses a tempe-
rament happily fitted to find, at least, a negative pleasure in
the least promising scenes of life, and peculiarly suited to
snatch a positive enjoyment from the ever varying sparkles
that follow the traveller's path. His disposition is cheerful ”
and active, leading him to see in every one he meets a com-
panion and friend, and to relish, with especial zest, the chang-
ing scenes of a rover’s course. Yet this pleasure is not to be
ascribed to his happy temperament alone; on the contrary,
it is in itself a bona fide attraction of travel. Novelty is a
charm peculiar to travel, and with many its only charm. It
_ is, after all, but one of the tourist’s minor pleasures, and,
indeed, without the power to appreciate its higher delights,
this, of novelty, soon cloys, wearies and disgusts. This is
invariably the case, where the gratification of the physical
senses is alone sought. Novelties, to sustain their zest, must
induce reflection, and upon reflection must be built thought.
The tourist, with mind thus enlightened, and heart thus sym-
pathizing, will realize the true ends and rewards of travel.
He will find his intellect expanded and invigorated; his pre-
judices removed ; his knowledge increased ; his philosophy
strengthened ; his manners softened, and his heart improved.
Tis intercourse is not, like that of the “dwellers in cities,”
confined through life to one narrow circle—to one set of
scenes, actions, thoughts and feelings, but is with the wide
world, the great family of man, all of whom, from pole to
pole, the high and mighty, the humble and despised, he
shakes familiarly by the hand, as brother greets brother.”

“In the changes of travel,” continued the speaker, “ what
innumerable magic touches are ever springing up to vibrate
the hidden ‘ chain of thought’ Standing upon those sacred
spots where deeds of valour and renown have been achieved—
where men of intellect and might have lived and died, how
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 223.

vividly is one’s past knowledge revived and intensified! how
the present, with its realities, melts into air, and the spirit,
for the moment disembodied, dwells with fancy and the past |!

“Thus musing amid classic scenes, the traveller’s privilege
alone, often have I realized ‘how kindred objects kindred
thoughts inspire.’ Roaming among the beauties of sea-girt
Scio, I have fancied the air thrilling with the matchless num-
bers of its old blind bard; over the grave of Maro, I have
mused with inexpressible delight ; upon the hill of Mars, I
have listened to the voice of the inspired man, warning the
mighty of mighty Athens. There, too, I have seen how
Grecian glory has departed. In Palestine, how many grand
associations have thrilled my very soul; how my heart has
leapt with intense sympathy, while musing amid the wilds of
Switzerland, upon the glorious feats of the immortal Tell;
while mourning by the crushed battlements of Warsaw,
brave Kosciusko’s fall and Freedom’s shiek ; while exulting
with the noble Bruce at Bannockburn. How grateful have
been my thoughts in the cloisters of imperial Westminster,
and upon the banks of the gentle Avon, to say nought of
the myriad spots embalmed in ancient story—Rome, Car-
thage, Thermopyle, Marathon, Leuctra, Salamis—names
more befitting the scholar’s lips than mine !”

“‘ My friends,” still continued the speaker, “ all these world-
renowned scenes I have visited, indeed I have ‘the heavens
and earth of every country seen,’ and think you I consider
my days as badly spent—my life unwisely employed? Not
so. The past years have yielded abundant joy in their pas-
sage, and are now securely invested in funds that are ever
giving me liberal and increasing dividends. I mean a fund
of pleasing memories, reminiscences and reflections. All the
world is my fireside: in every spot I have a local interest.
As evening approaches, I take my mandolin and strike its
224 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

chords again, beneath the latticed balcony of a dark-eyed
maid of legendary Spain, and at the midnight hour, I forget
myself in the giddy waltz of France’s gay saloons. In fair
Italia, I gravely talk of art and vertu. In the city of
mosques, I don my red slippers, cross my legs, and sip my
coffee with edifying sang-froid. In China, I taste the national
beverage with a commendable air of critical acumen; or if
that life be too indolent for my fancy, I creep into the buffalo
robes of the northern sledge, and follow the fleet reindeer over
the snows of Lapland and Russia, or, with the flying drome-
dary, give chase to the sirocco of the African deserts. O
yes! my friends; take my word for it, ‘ there is no life like
the traveller's life.’ ”

The interest that beamed from the eyes of all the travellers
present, while the member was speaking, and the smiling nod
they accorded him as he closed, plainly exhibited their entire
approbation and sympathy.

The subject was not yet allowed to sleep. “ Permit me,”
said a third member, “to add a thought to the last gentle-
man’s just and eloquent remarks. Carried away with the
vast intellectual pleasures yielded by his cherished mode of
life, he has failed to allude to its moral and religious influ-
ence; to the evidence, immense and incontrovertible, which
the tourist daily meets, of the existence of an overruling
power ;—of the omnipotence of that power, displayed in the
sublime of nature ;—of the perfect goodness of that eternal
mind in the beautiful. In his various rambles, who, among
our number present, has not, when gazing in wonder and
delight upon nature’s charms, been constrained to exclaim—
‘these are thy works, Parent of good!’ Whose mind and
heart, at such times, have not

‘In wonder trod,
Nature’s bright stairway up to Nature’s God

pb
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 225

The air of gravity produced in the club, by the remarks of
the last two members, gave way to a fecling more congenial
to the spirit of Mr. Jonathan Ramble, and his uncle, our
worthy president, when Mr. Steam claimed the privilege of
rendering hts verdict upon the preponderance of light or
shade in the rover’s life.

“Thank you, thank you, gentlemen!” said Mr. Steam,
earnestly, and addressing the preceding speakers, “ thank you
for maintaining the credit of our merry life. There is nothing
like it—nothing! Locomotion! what a word it is—how
musical, how grand! Ship, steamboat, rail-car, Bucephalus,
dromedary, donkey, apple-cart—I love them all! I havea
greater respect for my two feet, than any other members of
my mortal man. Why, gentlemen! life itself is a grand
journey; the seasons ‘ ¢ravel in their course ;’ the clouds flit
on; the rivers forever un, and old ocean continually ‘ keeps
moving.’ Mother earth rolls with crazy speed, and a dozen
ways at once. ‘Fair Cynthia’ journeys round the earth, and
all the stars of the bright blue sky are whirling, whirling,
whirling, forever and ever—amen !”

The members of the club, of course, felt the full force of
Mr. Steam’s opinion, yet they did not regard it as sufficiently
conclusive to warrant them in declining a further expression
of sentiment. It was also remembered that thus far, the
opinions had been upon the sunny side of the question, and
a few were known to be in the club, who were travellers less
in heart than habit. Of this recreant class was Mr. Homes,
and to him all eyes were mechanically turned. The appeal
was understood, and Mr. Homes “ had the floor.”

“ Gentlemen have spoken truly of the joys of travel, and yet
will they not permit me to question, whether, after all, their
pleasures are not purchased at a sacrifice of what is really of
infinitely more worth. Man is a social being—to be sure the
226 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

‘raveller finds companions enough—yes, man is formed for
social ties of a dearer and more lasting kind, than seem com-
patible with the nature of a rover’s career. Is there not a
want of real joy at the bottom of his cup? Is there not in
his pleasures a heartlessness and a recklessness, that leaves
him ever unsatisfied with his lot? Are there not many mo-
ments when he turns satiated and wearied from his course,
and with a feeling of envy regards the humble shepherd in
his ‘happy valley? Does not his vagrant fancy sometimes
push aside the jealous curtain, scan the well-ordered draw-
ing-room, and with longing heart gaze upon the happy
father, whose looks of love are reflected from the liquid eyes
of a fairy creature—his adoring wife ; whose caress is battled
for by a group of climbing seraphs—his loved babes !”

I know not where Mr. Homes’s fancy might have led him,
had he not at this moment been interrupted by the evident
impatience of Mr. Ease to speak.

“All twattle!” exclaimed that gentleman. “ Homes! I’m
astonished at you! you, a traveller of forty thousand, and
within these walls, too, to talk such unmitigated nonsense !
Ramble sent ‘Laura Matilda’ to the . but it seems she
has taken refuge in the bosom of our brother Homes. Your
exceptions to the pleasures of travel are all moonshine. You
have missed its real miseries. Now, if one could always
select his own field, it would do wellenough. But really the
horrid fare and strange bed-fellows that one often meets, are
very trying to the patience—very. If one could carry the
‘ Astor’ with his baggage, it would answer ; but tea-less, but-
ter-less, and every-thing-less, breakfasts and suppers are de-
cidedly objectionable—decidedly. You may say what you
please about the joys of association, of ‘banishing the pre-
sent and dwelling on the past,’ and similar stuff; Tama
traveller of thirty thousand, yet I never met the object I

 
THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB. 227

could view with pleasure, while my inward or outward man
were uncomfortably situated. Mr. Stephens tells us, that
when standing amid the crags of Mount Sinai, during a
thunder storm, sublime as was the scene, he would have bar-
tered it all for a pair of dry breeches! No doubt of it; and
yet Mr. S. is not wanting in soul and enthusiasm. The truth
is, the pleasures of travel dwell alone, first, in the anticipa-
tion, and last, in the remembrance.”

“T have one other objection,” continued Mr. Ease. “ Peo-
ple have an erroneous estimate of ramblers. They regard
us as a set of poor devils, penniless and decisionless ; never
satisfied, never knowing what to be at, and eternally roving
from post to pillar. That, I have discovered, to my cost. I
was once attacked with a sentimental fit, like our friend
Homes, and fancied myseif ticketed for ‘love in a cottage,’
with a charming little angel, when her mother, one unlucky
day, turned up her nose, and in turning up her nose, turned
over all my fondly cherished hopes, with the musty old pro-
verb, ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss.’”

As Mr. Ease paused, our worthy president favoured us
with a few words, with which I must close these thoughts
upon the pleasures and pains of locomotion.

“Mr. Ease,” remarked the president, “was deservedly
frustrated in his amour, for even contemplating a course of
life so much at variance with the spirit of the constitution of
our glorious club. His other complaints, I must be allowed
to say, are unworthy the sacrificing spirit that should ever
animate the members of this association. I presume Mr.
Ease only spoke en badinant. Mr. Homes’s sentiments are
true and honourable, yet betray a weakuess, which I trust is
but little prevalent among us. The remarks of the other
members are creditable to their judgments and to our cher-
228 THE TRAVELLERS’ CLUB.

ished’club. Remember, gentlemen, summer lasts not all the
year; no situation is without its cares, and of course ours—
comparatively happy as it is—is not exempt from désagré-
mens. Is it a moment of despondency with you?

‘ Wait a while, Spring-time cometh ;

Brothers! suy so too!”
“DON’T BE BASHFUL”?

 

“T pity bashful men, who feel the shame
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain ;
And bear the marks upon a blushing face,
Of needless pain and self-imposed disgrace.”

Wirn me life’s sun is sinking; the hoar-frost of age is
gathering upon my head, and welcome is its coming—for
what has been my past of childhood, youth and manhood,
but one dread day of fears, mortifications and sorrows. One
cruel infirmity has blasted my years; one “thorn in the
flesh” has poisoned all the flattering blossoms of hope, and
brought forth as fruits only bitter disappointments. That
my fellow mortals may learn wisdom from my experience,
and escape the rock upon which I have split, I leave them, in
these my confessions, the secret of my misery. From my
“simple tale” they may gather one line of advice, which, if
rightly improved, will be to them a richer legacy than a
thousand sparkling Inds. Hear, then, this line—this moral
of my story; hear my earnest, my last words—“ Don’? BE
BASHFUL.”

“Don’t be bashful:” Ah! well do I remember the first
time that my mother whispered those words in my ear. It
was on the occasion of agrand party at our mansion. A
prize had been offered to the victor in a game of elocution
between my playmate, Alphonse D’Effronterie, and myself.
Many were present, not only of my seniors, but of those of

20
230 “ DON’T BE BASHFUL.”

my own age, and a goodly share—perhaps an unusual share—
of approbativeness, made me particularly desirous to con-
quer. I had ten times the talents of Alphonse, and, but for
the lack of the necessary courage, victory had unquestionably
been mine; but, alas ! my constitutional timidity overwhelmed
me. I hesitated, stammered, forgot my part, and with deep
shame—excessively painful even at that early age—fled to
my mother, buried my burning forehead in her Jap, and
wept bitterly, while D’Effronterie, with an undaunted brow,
boldly bore away the prize.

This was the earliest palpable display of a disposition
which has proved the bane of my life, and the destroyer of
many fond hopes. My parents stood well in the world, from
high birth, distinguished merit, and great wealth. I was
their heir and only child, and, of course, their idolized pet.
Many and ambitious were the hopes grounded upon my suc-
cess in life: lofty was my prescribed destiny. My horoscope
seemed to warrant these anticipations, and for a few years its
presages were no less true than flattering. Time, however,
quickly told that the conjunctions of the stars, if voiceful at
all, spoke like other auguries—by contraries. The cardinal
trait of my disposition, as I have said, began early to devel-
ope itself in the character of an extreme mauvaise honte—an
excessive bashful timidity, approaching very nearly, if not
actually reaching, positive fear. It crushed, effectually, all
the brilliant air-castles my friends had erected. It has been
to me as the cursed load of old Sinbad—the stone of Sisy-
phus—the punishment of the Danaides—the “ body of this
death” of St. Paul—the misfortune, the blight of my life.
To rid myself of this timidity, I have essayed every means :
I have journeyed far and near ; I have forced myself into the
bustling world ; but in vain, for like an incubus it has ever

and unceasingly followed me.
% ® * % * *
“DoN’r BE BASHFUL.” 231

Alphonse and myself were school-mates, and many a
whipping did I receive, simply because, when, with his usual
audacity he shifted the fault upon my shoulders, I had not
courage to open my lips in my defence before the assembled
school, choosing to suffer in sullen silence, or rather, compel-
led to do so, for it was no matter of choice. The corporeal
suffering was the least evil result of my diffidence in this
case. From my silence was reasonably argued not only the
fullest guilt, but an unlovely stubbornness and obstinacy of
spirit—an inference, how widely at variance with the truth !

In college we were again compatriots. Here D’Effronterie
still indulged, unrestrained, his reckless pleasure, at my ex-
pense. But these are trifling matters compared with graver
incidents which I have to recount. I only mention them, as
they evidence the fatal disposition which in after and higher
periods of life effected my ruin. I studied industriously and
successfully, for my passion for knowledge, and my ambition
for its honours, were intense, while my mental powers were
full ard vigorous. In the recitation-room, however, my ap-
plication availed me little, for I was often embarrassed, brow-
beaten, and, in consequence, surpassed by those who pos-
sessed not one tithe of my ability, yet had at command an
abundance of what has ever been to me the great desidera-
tum—confidence. My illsuccess at such times was ascribed to
dullness and ignorance, as I studiously hid the real cause as far
as possible, willing that any other reason, however ignoble,
should be assigned. D’Effronterie, alone, knew me, and the
knowledge he mercilessly turned to his own advantage.
Why did he always stand first in his class, when, at the
same time, like Crichton, he was never seen engaged in the
toil of study, but was ever with his horses, his dogs, his
pleasures? Why did he thus gain the reputation of a mind
so superior in strength to the mass, that what required in
232 “DON’T BE BASHFUL,”

others a Herculean effort to master, asked from him but a
moment’s attention? Why had he thus, without effort, the
credit of acquirements, which I, with all my midnight toils
and real merit, failed to gain? Why, indeed? but that
what I sowed, he reaped; that the problems and themes
which I laboured to perfect and embellish, he unblushingly
elbowed before the public as his own. And why did I thus
supinely become his slave? only that I feared he would else
expose me to circumstances in which my hateful bashfulness
would be betrayed, and myself made ridiculous.

Though thus prevented from distinguishing myself on the
rostrum, or by personal public exhibition, one way was yet
left me by which I might show the world my strength. In
the solitude of my chamber, with no eye to daunt me, I could
pour out my whole soul without reserve, and with a force,
fancy, flow and grace, of which few imagined me capable.—
Perhaps my power in writing was the greater, in that I was
excluded from other channels of communion with the world,
as the loss of one or more of our senses gives exquisite acute-
ness to others. In composition, then, I for a time exerted
myself, and the result was exhibited in a rapidly growing
reputation. But this gave birth to its own difficulties, as it
drew me into a notice repulsive to my shrinking tempera-
ment. The hesitation with which I received such tributary
attention, was in such ill alliance with the ease of my writings,
that many even questioned their genuineness. I determined,
however, to struggle hard with the demon within me, and to
bear patiently the pain of the effort. As the season approach-
ed in which our four years’ communion was to end, and we
enter our several barques for the voyage of life, great was the
struggle for the valedictory honour, and I was at the head of
the competitors. To me it was tacitly assigned, and rightly,
for I became the victor. Then, I thought that with a strong
“Don’r BE BASHFUL.” 233

effort I would redeem all past weaknesses. But alas! as the
day approached, my spirit faltered; to stand up before assem-
bled thousands, the cynosure of all eyes, was as horrible to
me as was the official summons to the bar of the House of
Lords to the shrinking Cowper. The mere thought became
insupportable—my resolution sank, and on the eve of com-
mencement, when all the world was anticipating my triumph,
I declined the honour, and shut the portal of “ Fame’s proud
temple” in my own face. D’Effronterie took my place and
won general applause, while the public wondered at my con-
duct, and my friends cursed my egregious folly.

Thus did my unhappy timidity wither all my hopes at the
very threshold of life, which was the more to be deplored, as
my parents died soon after, and much of my patrimony pass-
ing into other hands, I was compelled to exertion for the
means of subsistence. Once more I was determined to con-
quer myself; and partly that my friends thought my talents
the best suited to it, and as it appeared to me the mine in
which Ishould most readily gain that coveted gem—brass—
I embarked in the profession of the law.

In the office of an eminent attorney I applied myself dili-
gently, and con amore to my new study, so that I soon mas-
tered its difficulties, and made such rapid advancement, as to
win general esteem, but more particularly the approving notice
of my distinguished mentor. As I increased my knowledge,
he flattered me by frequently soliciting my counsel in compli-
cated cases, and sometimes hinting a design of tendering me
an association with him in business. Such indeed was my
success, that I was soon qualified to take my place at the bar,
and after the usual examination, which I managed to pass
tolerably well, I was duly admitted. Previous to this period,
however, new feelings and hopes entered my heart. I have
said that I was a favourite with my instructor; so much so,

20*
234 “ DON’? BE BASHFUL,”’

that I possessed his unreserved confidence, professionally, and
his warmest friendship, personally. In his domestic circle I
was, first, an invited and welcome guest—afterwards, a con-
stant and intimate one. It was at this time that I first expe-
rienced the emotions of the grand passion—love ; and surely,
Fanny Alford, my tutor’s matchless daughter, would have
been abundant apology, even from hearts of sterner mould.
than mine, for yielding to the sway of the blind tyrant—
Fanny was—but why need I describe her? It is unnecessary,
indeed irrelevant to my purpose. Let the reader imagine her
possessed of all the beauties and virtues with which a dream-
ing enthusiast is wont to invest his heart's idéal. Let him
suppose the effect of frequent intercourse with such a being
upon one peculiarly susceptible to the power of female charms,
and he will behold me completely won by the beauty, mental
and physical, the winning manner and gazété de cour of
Fanny Alford. Though physically unable to win admiration
in a crowd, in a ¢éte-d-iéte I felt at home, could freely exert
my powers, and always with eminent success. In my inter-
course with Fanny I failed not to bestir myself to win her love,
and I had sufficient reason to think myself triumphant. Need
I tell the sequel—the hopes I cherished, the confession I
gathered courage to stammer forth, her half granted assent,
the virtual approbation of her father, the congratulations of
the world? Need I tell the new and powerful incentives I
felt, to struggle for a name and place in the world, and the
thousand visions of happiness I fancied before me? In this
position of affairs, and while thirsting for an occasion to dis-
tinguish myself, how happy was I, when, soon after my ad-
mission to practice, Mr. Alford’s influence procured me a case
of great importance and success, which would undoubtedly be
a sure stepping-stone to after fame. Much was I envied, nor
did I fail in congratulating myself, or in valiantly resolving to
“ DON’T BE BASHFUL.” 235

spare no effort essential to success. Having of late been
thrown but little in circumstances to excite my usual timidity,
I seldom thought, or at least had but slight fear of its con-
sequences in my prospective efforts, until I recollected that
my old associate, D’Effronterie, who happened to be my op-
ponent in the coming case, was well aware of my weakness.
This thought, as the day of trial approached, had a powerful
influence in reviving my slumbering infirmity, until the pros-
pect before me became as intensely painful as would death
itself, and I repented the moment in which I had ventured
with such temerity upon public life. Every thing, though,
was at stake, and it was too late to recede. Mr. Alford, I
knew, was a man of undaunted courage, with an utter con-
tempt for fearful or hesitating spirits. Fanny too, in this
regard, was not unlike her father, and with their knowledge
of my former life, I was aware that the least diffidence would
be rightly interpreted, and would lower, if not destroy me in
their esteem.

The eventful day arrived. The court-room was crowded
by those attracted by the interest of the case, and the novelty
of the debit of two nedphytes of whom report spoke so well.
When called upon to open the case, I was surprised at my
own success, and continued with increasing confidence, until,
as I reached the most thrilling part of my subject, D’Effron-
terie glanced at me with a sneering smile, and drawing near,
whispered in my ear, yet in a tone audible to the court,—
“don't be bashful!” Had the last message of Gabriel, in
his position upon sea and upon land, fallen upon my ear, it
could not have been more startling or more fatal. In one’
moment, all my past failures rushed to mind, with their accu-
mulated mass of mortification and shame. Every eye seemed
glued upon me in pity or scorn, All further effort was idle.
I effectually stumbled and fell. I recollect little else than a
236 “Don’? BE BASHFUL.”

general hiss, which followed me as I rushed half maddened
from the court to my lodgings. Here I forever abandoned
the law, and here ended my acquaintance with Mr. Alford
and my first love, Fanny; for, as I feared, he despised me for
my weakness, and duly apprised me by note of his sentiments,
together with his own and his daughter’s disinclination to any
further intercourse with one who possessed so little manliness
of character. Suffering under a sense of wrong, as well as of
shame, I made no effort to regain their favour, but used all
haste in escaping, forever, from the city and ‘its associations.
After the fatal termination of my hopesin , it occurred
to me that in the profession of medicine I should be but very
little exposed to circumstances which would betray my cursed
bashfulness, To this pursuit, I therefore bent my energies,
and settling in a town remote from the scene of my late dis-
aster, I soon obtained a flourishing practice. The people
among whom I had fallen were, with rare exceptions, mem-
bers of the church. Upon the subject of religion I had oft-
times dwelt, and was predisposed to accept its teachings,
having been educated in a strict aud reverential observance of
christian rites and belief. It only needed the example and
influence at this time around me to fill the already sinking
scale. I accordingly became a devoted, and I trust sincere,
member of their religious body. This I record only inasmuch
as it influenced subsequent incidents in my experience.
Among the leading members of the church was Deacon
Moulton, a complete realization of my idéal of a deacon of
romance, exhibiting a figure, whose every motion, and a
countenance whose every feature, was dripping with sanctity.
In the church, his stern and regular observance of duty, won
him influence ; and in the world, his upright and industrious
devotion to his business, with the thrift which followed, gained
him respect. It is, however, with the deacon’s daughter that

 
“ Don’? BE BASHFUL.” 237

I have to do, rather than himself. Marie Moulton was a
sweet girl, then entering her sixteenth year. Very different
was she from Fanny Alford; no less lovely than she, yet her
beauty was of another style. Instead of Fanny’s careless,
joyous expression, her air was one of thoughtful pensiveness.
For Fanny’s vivacity, self-possessed and even bold address,
Marie’s manner was timid and retiring, almost to a fault ;
and again, instead of the activity, restlessness and earnestness
which marked Fanny’s disposition, Marie was strongly charac-
terized by a quietness and evenness of soul, which to the
careless observer might have seemed to argue a lifeless, au-
tomaton insensibility. It needed but a very slight acquaint-
ance, though, to detect beneath this calm surface a current,
deep and strong; a calm enthusiasm, the more fanciful in its
picturings, and the more resolute in its plans, as she locked
her feelings in her own bosom, jealously hiding them from the
eye of a world, whose cold approval or sneering ridicule, might
have soon destroyed them and dried up the source from
whence they sprung. Beneath an outward semblante gentle
as the pet dove, she hid a heart intense in its emotions as the
spirit of the maelstrom. Her religious trust, perhaps, aided
her in this strong and perfect control, for Marie was truly
pious, and her piety was not stained by one shadow of bigo-
try. In this respect her father was widely different ; he had
his own prescribed course of conduct and rule of duty, and
for those whose opinion at all varied from his own, he had
not one spark of tolerance. When Marie won my heart and
returned my preference with her own inestimable affection, of
course Deacon Moulton felt himself privileged to exert some
influence and authority over me. This conceived right he did
not fail to exercise, and in him who would gain his daughter’s
hand, nothing was so absolutely requisite as a congeniality of
religious sentiment with himself. He was a leading man in
238 “ Don’? BE BASHFUL.”

the church, and he expected me to follow his example in
every good word and work. This it was my highest pleasure
to do, in my own quiet unobserved way, but unfortunately for
me, there was little of the unobtrusive in Deacon Moulton’s
religion. It was only when he was seen of men that he could
afford to give time and thoughts to heaven. He was always
ready when long prayers and exhortations were required, and
30 he expected me to be. These public exercises, however,
I began to dread when I had regularly to look for them. My
old diffidence returned upon me, in full force, and the prospect
of being called upon to take part in the exercises of the meet-
ings I was required to attend, became absolutely painful.
At first [refused my aid. This course gave such deep offence
to Deacon M., that I tried another. I now absented myself
from the prayer-meetings altogether, and went late to the
Sabbath-school, to avoid being called upon to make the usual
openings by reading, prayer, etc. My reason, as I have
before said, for this shrinking from public exposure, I studious-
ly concealed, willing that any other cause whatever than the
true one should be assigned. And in this instance, a reason
was premised, which proved a death-blow to my dawning
hopes. Deacon Moulton could attribute my conduct to no-
thing else than a coldness in the cause, perhaps a positive
backsliding and denial of my profession. Than this, no cha-
racter was more hateful in his sight. I found my visits at his
house less and less welcome, until at last he virtually bade
me resign all hopes of possessing his daughter. The commu-
nity too doubted me, my practice fell off, and finding myself
generally shunned, I was compelled to abandon the place.
This I could not do without Marie. I was well aware that
she did not share her father’s prejudice, and that her love for
me would endure great sacrifice. I succeeded in obtaining
several private interviews, and finally, with difficulty, per-
“ DON’? BE BASHFUL,” 239

suaded her to escape with me from the unjust prejudice and
rule of her stern father. But alas! when on the very point
of success, our project failed. We were discovered. So great
was the public horror of my ungod!y proceeding, that I was
compelled to make a hasty retreat, while Marie, for penance
for her fault, was subjected to the harshest treatment and the
most rigorous vigilance. All after effort to see her proved
fruitless, and a few weeks subsequently I was maddened at
hearing, that her disappointment, and the unkind treatment
of her father, had crushed her gentle spirit, produced a violent
illness, and ended in her death.

Thus again were the. brightest visions blasted by my hateful
folly. My disruption with Fanny Alford, I soon learned to
forget, but the remembrance of the hapless Marie has ever
since brought with it a pang. Neither misfortune, however,
proved fatal to my peace, as after occurrences showed that
sincere as I fancied my love, I had not yet bestowed my heart
in that utter unreservedness and intense depth of devotion of
which it was capable. Thus to love, however, was still my
fate. A third and last scene of “light and shadow” was in
reserve for u.e. The recital of this act will close my hapless
confessions, and relieve the wearied patience of the reader.

Tt was two years after the death of Marie that I found my-
self a guest at a fashionable watering place. I had then
resigned all active life, as by an unexpected rise in the value
of the stocks still in my possession, my means became again
sufficient for my wants. Fearful still of exposing myself to
painful mortifications, I mingled but little with the crowd,
confining my intercourse to two or three acquaintances, in
whom I soon detected a congeniality of soul with my own.
To the side of one of these few friends I soon found myself
insensibly and irresistibly drawn. I discovered that she read
my secret, and loved me for my misfortune. Here, at last,
240 “DoN’? BE BASHFUL.”

was the heart for which I had so long sighed. I loved her
devotedly, madly. She returned my affection. Days and
weeks flew by, and never was I so happy, even in my wildest
dreams ; never before had life seemed worth enjoying ; never
indeed had I before lived. So it might, perhaps, ever have
been, but that, in a luckless hour, my evil genius, D’Effron-
terie, appeared on the stage. He was the magician whose
wand summoned the evil spirit, always productive of my utter
confusion. My readers have noted his influence in my dis-
comfiture, in the profession in which we both at the same
time embarked. His brazen spirit promised good success in
that profession, and such it soon yielded him. What par-
ticular motive led him to I never knew; sufficient for
my purpose, that he was there. With the most consummate
impudence he reclaimed my acquaintance, and when I refer-
red coldly to the last passage between us, he affected a well-
executed astonishment at my taking offence at his conduct,
alleging it to have only sprung from a little innocent humour
on his part, without any possible conception of its producing
ill effects. Such was his power over me, that I was involun-
tarily necessitated to admit his society.

Louise Lawton, the object of my last and lasting love, I
shall not pause to describe; hastening to the close of my
eventful history. D’Effronterie saw the position of matters at
a glance, and at the same instant formed a malicious resolve
to thwart our hopes. Had I a bouquet to offer to Louise—
before I was aware of his approach he was behind me, taking
the gift with the most entire sang frovd, and placing me under
eternal obligations by executing my errand, while he despatch-
ed me on a wild goose chase elsewhere! These manceuvres
he managed in such a way that I could not take offence, while,
at the same time, I was made supremely ridiculous, and a
general laugh raised at my expense.

 
“ DON’T BE BASHFUL.” 241

Did I attempt to utter a pretty sentiment, D’Effronterie
was sure to spoil it, by his officious profters of assistance, as
he termed it, in explaining my meaning, or completing my
figure. In this way, I was often confused in the middle of a
sentence, exposed to shame, and made miserable for the rest
of the day. Indeed, I was completely his butt. The merest
trifle he could turn to my annoyance, without appearing to
have had any such design. So perfectly was he master of
himself and his art, that I was sometimes, myself, half forced
to believe him influenced by an overflow of good will, rather
than a wilful disregard of the feelings of others. ‘This kind-
ness was officious, to be sure, spoiling what it essayed to better
—still kindness, however mistaken, he made it appear, and
such the world believed it. This being the case, there was,
of course, no appeal. Was I engaged to dance with Louise—
as I timidly advanced to proffer my arm, D’Effronterie’s
seemed by some magic to be already there, and accepted be-
fore she was aware that he was present. Then followed a
contention as to whose set it really was. He looked incredu-
lous when I asserted my right, and when I was sustained by
the verdict of Louise herself, he still appealed, vowing laugh-
ingly that I was dreaming, and that Louise, with her multitude
of slaves, could not by any possibility be supposed capable of
reccllecting which of them she was pledged to favour. He
himself, in her necessity, would fill the important office of
memory forher. These disputes he would keep up, until the
impatience of the dancers making further parlance impossible,
he would lead his captive hastily to the set, leaving me to
pick up some one else, or amuse myself by looking on.

Did I tender my assistance in putting on Louise’s shawl—
scarcely had I raised it, when it was lifted, as by the breeze,
in D’Effronterie’s hands, and at the same instant most gal-
lantly wrapped around her. Then he would accompany her

21
242 “ Don’? BE BASHFUL,”

home, and if told that she was otherwise engaged, would
either wilfully misunderstand her, swear that I was sighing
to be elsewhere, or that he had made a vow to be her escort
on that particular occasion, or else complain of her partiality
to others and cruelty to him, and insist upon her doing penance
for such unspeakable crimes by permitting his company.
There was always such extreme good humour, such inimitable
pleasantry, such a winning smile upon his handsome features
in these manceuvres, that neither Louise nor others could be
offended, although they felt that they ought to be, and some-
times did try to summons a frown. Occasionally, when he
saw me really angry, he made a matchless affectation of sor-
row, and humbly begged my forgiveness. In this way he
rendered my situation ten times more awkward than before.
Oh! if I had my life to live over, and was permitted from
earth’s treasures to select one gift, my choice should be
D’Effronterie’s confidence! Were Jove again to send forth, as
in the days of Addison, his permission to all men to cast down
their affliction, and take in exchange sdme other from the
rejected pile, I would—notwithstanding the little satisfaction
that followed the privilege upon the occasion in question—
gladly renounce my hateful bashfulness and accept any evil
in lieu thereof. Pandora’s box wide open, and Fancy’s micro-
scope before it, could not deter me!

At this time, the engagement between Louise and myself
was only tacit; and fearful of the consequences of D’Effron-
terie’s wiles, I resolved to bring matters to a full point. A
sylvan party was, about this period, projected, and, remem-
bering my mother’s admonition—* Don’t be bashful,” I de-
termined to avail~myself of the occasion for the desired
eclaircissement.

The looked-for day arrived, and a more lovely one, summer
never boasted. The balmy air, and all the appareling of
“ DON’T BE BASHFUL.” 248

nature, seemed to invite a humour of dreamy speculation
and romantic sentiment. Every thing around me appeared
to lead to the confession burning upon my lips. I had wan-
dered with Louise far from the throng, and in a few moments
the intended words would have met her ear, when what
apparition should startle me, but the figure of D’Effronterie !
Accompanying him was a young lady, whom he playfully
resigned to me as he approached, exclaiming, “ Well met,
my dear fellow! here, Miss Murdock and I have quarrelled,
yet I cannot leave her here to find her way back alone. You
see how awkwardly we are situated—doomed to each other’s
society, when both are ready to bite if opportunity served.
I know you will relieve me, and protect her home; never
mind Miss Louise, I'll take her off your bands—besides, I
have some news for her, which you know I promised you to
communicate.”

What could I do but submit to the exchange of partners—
which exchange, indeed, D’Effronterie had already effected.
I felt too much embarrassed to object, though Miss Murdock
was a companion not particularly welcome. She was a cousin
of D’Effronterie’s, and much resembling him in boldness of
character. Like him, she would not hesitate at means to
accomplish a desired end. She had somehow fancied me a
fitting Leander for her, and had used efforts to convert me-to
her way of thinking. The world gave some credit to a
report of my regard for her, and Louise, I knew, had been
annoyed by such whispers. As D’Effronterie passed on with
Louise, he called to me, with a mysterious air, to * make the
best of my time.” I did not notice the remark at the mo-
ment, as my thoughts were upon other matters.

“Shall we never understand each other ?” I murmured,
forgetting that I was not alone.

“Further confession is unnecessary, dear sir; you have
244 “ DON’T BE BASHFUL.”

already told enough,” whispered Miss Murdock, affection-
ately.

“ Enough !” I echoed, in surprise. “ Have you detected my
attachment, then, Miss Murdock ?”

“That was not difficult,” she answered ; “all the world
have observed it long ago. Mr. D’Effronterie, tov, has told
me all. I have waited for the confession from your own lips»
but aware of your natural diffidence, I determined—I hope
not too boldly—to assure you of my approbation of your
suit, and even to confess that your love is returned.”

“Thank you, for those words, my dear Miss Murdock,” I
exclaimed, overjoyed at the communication, and supposing it
to refer to Louise. At the same time, as an additional ex-
pression of my thanks, I lifted her hand to my lips. D'Ef
fronterie, who had managed to follow us closely, was at this
instant within hearing, and, together with his companion,
overheard my exclamation, and witnessed the action which
followed. This I saw at once, when looking round I observed
their proximity, and the surprise depicted in Louise’s counte-
nance, and D’Effronterie’s sinister smile. Before I could
execute my purpose of addressing them, they were lost in
another of the labyrinthine paths amid which our pic-nic was
held. Miss Murdock, also, seemed impatient to proceed.
Her brother, a man with as much impudence, yet less polish
than D’Effronterie, soon joined us. She whispered a few
words to him, whereupon he offered me his hearty congratu-
lations upon my choice of a wife. We quickly reached their
residence, and my refusal to enter was regarded with such
horror, that I withdrew it. As the members of the family
severally entered, I was surprised to receive congratulations
from each, and still more puzzled that Miss Murdock shared
in the good wishes. What interest she had in the matter
was indeed a riddle. The revels of the day were to end with
“DON'T BE BASHFUL.” 245

a ball, but as some hours yet intervened, the Misses Murdock
sallied forth on a shopping excursion, and nothing would do
but I must be exhibited at their side. In each place, the
young ladies had some mysterious intelligence to communi-
cate, which was generally followed by offered congratulations
to me, upon my anticipated change of life. Wondering at
the singular wisdom of the public, yet hoping soon to give
them real cause for their good wishes, I received them all in
good part, never denying my right to them. I was half
engaged to attend Louise to the ball, but as D’Effronterie
dropped in at the Murdock’s, and left word for me that she
had placed herself under his charge for the evening, I gave
way to a little feeling of pique, and was easily persuaded to
accompany the Misses Murdock. Not only had I their soci-
ety on the way, but during the whole evening I was their
prisoner. Every body, too, appeared to expect no less, and
studiously kept aloof from me. Louise was there, but in the
few efforts I made to meet her, I found that she carefully
shunned me. Having no better employment, then, I gave
myself up to the amusement of the Misses Murdock, still
thinking of Louise, and resolving to seek an explanation with
her in the morning.

When, upon the following day, I called at their hotel to
execute this purpose, what was my surprise to learn that
they had left the place! actually departed before the dawn,
in the public cars, without leaving any clue to their ultimate
destination. I was bewildered, and not until a servant
brought me down a note, left for me by my Louise, did the
truth break upon me. Then, indeed, it was plain and painful
enough. Her missive was brief. Its tone was sad, yet
without reproach. She had learned, she wrote, from D’Ef-
fronterie, of my engagement to Miss Murdock, yet would not
believe the story; until she saw and heard it confirmed by my

21* *
246 “DON’T BE BASHFUL,”

own actions and words. She closed, by praying for my hap-
piness and bidding me a last adieu. I saw all in an instant,
the design of D’Effronterie and his cousins to take advantage
of my diffidence to entrap me into an union with their
family, and the artful manner in which they had committed
me with themselves and the public. I now read the secret of
the congratulations showered so thickly upon me; of the
communication D’Effronterie said he had promised me to
make to Louise; and of the pertinacity with which she
avoided me the previous evening. My hesitation at our last
interview, when upon the point of offering her my vows, she
now, most probably, put down to my dislike to tell her the
cruel tale that D’Effronterie had related. All these thoughts
were confirmed, when, upon reaching my lodgings, I met
Miss Murdock’s brother, and a full explanation ensued.
Murdock affected astonishment when I denied any engage-
ment to his sister. He said I had gone too far to retreat,
and insisted upon my fulfilling what he -was pleased to style
my promises. D’Effronterie was present, and made strong
efforts to intimidate me. But they had relied too much
upon their influence. Louise out of the question, I might,
perhaps, have yielded to their toils, but now so bitter was
my disappointment, that my soul was roused, and, for the
time, all trace of my besetting weakness had vanished. I
scorned their threats, and waiting only to write to my agent
touching the management of my affairs, I fled the place, in
fruitless search for Louise. Fruitless, indeed, for months and
even years passed, and with all my vigilance not a trace could
I find of her.

At length, wearied of life and broken down with disap-
pointment and sorrow, I was one day brooding in my solitary
chamber, in the city of , When a note was put into my
hands, written in the familiar hand of Louise’s mother. She

 
“Don’? BE BASHFUL.” Q47

had observed and recognized me in the street that morning,
and now implored my immediate presence at her residence.
With what eagerness I read the request and hastened to
reply! Yet in the style and tone of the note, was something
that whispered sad forebodings. I trembled as the same roof
again sheltered Louise and myself. Mrs. Lawton greeted me
kindly, but there was that in her manner and her grief-worn
countenance which excited my worst fears. I dared not ask
after Louise. Her mother spoke not of the interval since our
last meeting, but, beckoning me to follow, noiselessly entered
a darkened room, from all its chill appointments, too evi-
dently the chamber of the sick. Upon that lonely couch—
alas! that dying couch, was my Louise, now but the shadow
of her former self. As I approached, she recognized me,
silently pressing my hand. Then I gave vent to my over-
charged emotions—told her of the suffering I had endured
for her sake—the deception of which we had both been the
dupes, and my undeviating constancy. As I spoke, a bright
smile of holy content and happiness illumined her angel
face, and casting a farewell glance upon her mother and my-
self, her gentle spirit passed to the God who gave it. Need
the reader be told of the fatal day and cause that blighted
that young and trusting heart, until it drooped and withered
from the earth ?

I have but a word of sequel. The Murdocks, afler my
abrupt departure from , instituted legal measures against
me for alleged breach of contract, and as Lentered no defence,
not having the courage to appear again in court, after my
previous ignoble failure, large damages were recovered, which
essentially impaired my little fortune.

The bold attempt of D’Effronterie and his friends to im-
pose upon my diffident nature, as I afterwards learned, sprung

 
248 “ DON’T BE BASHFUL.”

from some previous passages between Miss M. and D’Effron-
terie. As the attempt failed, the lady’s brother compelled
him to wed her himself. These brothers afterwards quar-
relled, and young Murdock fell in a duel by D’Effronterie’s
hand. What further happened to the parties I know not.
Mrs. Lawton, in a short time, followed Louise to the grave,
while I have since existed, patiently awaiting the common
release to all earth’s sufferers. I have been long since cured
of my fatal weakness, but oh! how immense the cost of that
cure! Weigh it, reader. Reflect upon my hapless life, and
be what you will, but for heaven’s sake ‘pon’: BE BASHFUL.”
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.

Tus following story, although detracting from the pro-
verbially exalted reputation of Carolina for generous hospital-
ity, is yet most minutely veritable. Happily it is only an
“exception,” which, it is said, instead of destroying, estab-
lishes the “rule.” The incident actually occurred, and was
related to me by a gentleman of veracity, though in a manner
far above my own indifferent powers of narration.

The night was dark—so dark, that as a thunder peal rang
through the heavens, it was most beautifully said by a young
gentleman of a poetical turn of mind, to have been caused by
Erebus, who, delighted out of all propriety at the perfection
of his ebony progeny, greeted it, as he left it to hold undis-
puted sway over the coming hours, with a vehement kiss.
But whether Erebus’s feelings were so easily carried away or
not, the night really was dark, and the storm-spirit ruled
despotically. No mortal, as he looked abroad, could help
praying that all poor wights might be secured from its
relentless fury.

One, however, there was, who did no? cherish such kindly
emotions. Colonel Beall was a dweller in astately mansion,
in the “low country” of the chivalrous Palmetto State. All
around him savoured strongly of comfort, with something to
spare. No humbler residents came between the wind and
the colonel’s nobility, for many miles around. He made, as
250 ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER,

he rode over his demesne, the same proud and kingly reflection
that Mr. Crusoe did, upon his lonely isle, but it was in a
humour of self gratulation, rather than in the spirit, craving the
sympathy and participation of others, in which poor Robinson
soliloquized.

The night, we have said, was dark—and so, also, was the
hospitable colonel’s brow, when, just as he bad finished his
cigar, and was retiring to rest, an ominous rap at the door
smote upon his ear. A moment subsequent a servant enter-
ed, bearing the prayer of a traveller, for food and shelter for
the night.

“Tell him,” returned Colonel Beall, and his dark brow
darkened, “that I don’t keep tavern, and be can’t stay here.”

“Tf you please, sir,” said the servant, deprecatingly, “he
says that he is a stranger in these parts, that he has lost his
way, that the night is dark, and he is tired, wet and hungry.”

“Tell him, I say,” interrupted the colonel peremptorily,
“that he cannot stay here.”

The boy quickly returned, renewing the entreaty of the
traveller for accommodation, and his wish that the colonel
would at least condescend to step to the door.

Beall, with an impatient and angry action, pushed his feet
farther into his slippers, and shuffled to the piazza.

“What did my servant say to you?” he asked in a crabbed
voice. “Did he not tell you that I do not keep tavern; en-
tertainment for neither man nor horse, and that you cannot
remain here?”

“He certainly did,” returned the tourist, respectfully doffing
his beaver, “ but I thought it was a mistake. I could not be-
lieve that in so dreary and wild a night as this, and in my
peculiar circumstances, as a stranger—wet, hungry and wea-
ried—that you would refuse me admittance as you would a
dog.”
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. 251

“T tell you, sir,” said the imperturbable Beall, “that I do
aot and will not take in travellers.”

“But, sir—my necessities are pressing ; my

“‘ Sir,” replied the colonel, “ one word is as good asa thou-
sand. I tell you my house is not a tavern.”

“ But, sir,” again interposed the stranger, “I cannot be re-
fused; the night is too dark and dangerous, and myself and
horse too fatigued to journey farther. Neither do I know
anything of the country or road. Give us, at least, a shelter ;
common humanity may claim as much.”

“T can’t help it, sir,” replied Beall, as he gradually closed
the door in the supplicant’s face. “There is a house about
four miles from here ; if you take the left at the mill, and
look out for the ford—for it’s deep and boggy——then at the
top of the hill take down the fence into a lane, and about
three miles from here, turn into a blind path to the right.”

‘With frigid and oppressive politeness, the stranger bowed
low and expressed his earnest thanks and exalted consideration
of the gentleman’s kindness, and a hope that time and oppor-
tunity would enable him to reciprocate.

We said that the colonel was the only dweller in the
neighbourhood. There was one other, a very poor man, as
the benighted tourist learned upon inquiry of Colonel Beall’s
servant,

“He is a mighty poor white man, massa,” said the boy,
“mighty poor.”

“But, my boy, don’t. you think he can give me a shelter, a
fire, some hoe-cake, and a dry plank to sleep on ?”

“Why yes, massa, he worse off den de niggers, but Treck-
on he can do dat ere.”

“ Well, that is more than I can get here; so you, Ben, or
whatever your name is, just show me the way, and here’s a
quarter for you.” e

 
252 ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER,

“Tt’s mighty bad night, massa, and I hate to go out pow-
erful, but I’se dreadful sorry for you, and I s’pose I'll go.”

And so, go they did. The family were all asleep, but in-
stead of murmuring at the intrusion, they arose with alacrity,
and Samaritan-like, welcomed the stranger, built a fire, pre-
pared an humble supper, and gave him a pallet upon which
tosleep. And thus our traveller passed the night.

Our scene abruptly changes. The low-lands of the State
are deserted for its hill-region. The wrinkles upon the brow
of kind mother Earth, have been deepened by a whole year’s
suns and snows.

Colonel Beall, a gentleman renowned in the beau monde
for his high breeding, proud descent, great wealth, and gen-
erous and hospitable soul, left the heated temperature of his
own home for a summer campaign among the mountains and
water-falls.

The colonel, with his wife and daughters, enjoyed a most
excellent appetite at the several points in Georgia, of Tallu-
lah, Toccoa and Hastatoia, and in their own State, of Table
Mountain, White Water, Slicking and Casar’s Head. At
the loveliness and sublimity of each and all of these scenes,
Col. Beall, with his wife and daughters, exclaimed, ‘ Charm-
ing! O, ’tis delightful!” whenever any one of sufficient im-
portance was near enough to hear and note the display of
emotion.

At length, Colonel Beall ordered his horses’ heads turned
homewards, but before much distance was accomplished, an
accident happened to the carriage, and a long detention was
before them.

Fortunately, upon an eminence, and about a mile from the
scene of disaster, was a mansion, evidently the abode of a
gentleman of means and taste. Thither the colonel quickly
despatched a negro to solicit aid in their dilemma.
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER, 253

“ Ay, ay,” said Major Peters, when the servant followed
his best bow with a deferential announcement of his business
to the owner of the marsion— Colonel Beall, from the low
country—ay ? Give Major Peters’s compliments to your
master, and tell him my carriage shall be down directly to
bring his family to my house, and that I will send my ser-
vants to look after his.”

This courtesy the boy hastened to convey to the colonel,
but scarcely had he done so before Major Peters was himself
upon the ground, lamenting their loss, and cordially proffer-
ing the use of his house, his purse and his time. Col. Beall
and his family were, therefore, soon at home, in the drawing-
room of the hospitable major.

“Now, my dear,” said Peters to Mrs. Peters, before intro-
ducing her to his guests—“ Now, my dear, this Colonel
Beall is a man of some considerable importance, from below ;
renowned, especially for his hospitality, and I would not be
outdone by him; therefore, my dear, use every effort—sup-
ply the best of every thing, in the best manner—anticipate
all their wants—the wants even of the children and servants,
while [ll see that no wines are lacking, and that the horses
grow fat. By the way, my dear, give the children plenty of
fruit and milk—milk particularly, they are very fond of
that.”

Mrs. Peters, always upon hospitable thoughts intent, now
bustled about with additional alacrity and smiles. Never did
entertainers do their devoir with so much success, and never
were guests so delighted. Three days passed before they
were enabled to resume their journey, and even then they
were pressed to prolong their visit. In the interval, Major
Peters had, in person, gone to the neighbouring village, and
seen the colonel’s carriage repaired, discharging the cost out
254 ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.

“And now, my dear major,” said Col. Beall, when he was
about starting, and had exhausted himself in thanks to his
open-hearted host—* now, my dear sir, we have been with
you, our family, horses, and servants, for several days ; please
to make your bill sufficiently ample to remunerate you.”

“My bill, sir! I assure you I have no demand whatever
against you.”

“No demand, Major Peters! but you must have. We
have trespassed both upon your time and your purse.”

“ Indeed, sir, I have no bill whatever.”

“ But, Major Peters, you must have. I cannot leave with-
out paying you.”

“ Colonel Beall, when I recall the great debt of gratitude
which I owe you, it seems impossible for me ever to make
sufficient return.”

“Debt! gratitude! my dear sir! I never met you before!
you are under no obligation to me /”

“Great—very great obligation, Colonel Beall—immeasu-
rable obligation. You knew not, most excellent man, when
you conferred the favour, that it was any other than a poor
wayfarer whom you served.”

“Major: Peters, you speak mysteries! I pray you, sir,
explain.”

“Colonel Beall, as I said before, I have never, for an
instant, forgotten your kindness, nor shall I to the hour of
my death ; and surely, Colonel Beall, ‘one good turn deserves
another,’ and besides I do not keep tavern !”

it Sir! \?

“ Ah, Col. Beall, I see that you fai to recall the incident,
and surely you cannot have quite forgotten the dark and
drear December night, when a poor traveller, benighted,
half-drowned, and half-starved, sought shelter and food—if
only a fodder-loft and a hoe-cake, at your princely mansion,
and—was refused !”
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER, 255

 

“Surely, Major Peters, you were not that man ! you ie

“ And was refused, Col. Beall, as the distressed beggar
would hardly have been at the poorest door in the land.
Col. Beall, I am not ungrateful, and I tell you again, ‘one
good turn deserves another,’ and for your past kindness to
me, you are most heartily welcome to what you have enjoyed
under my roof.”

Abashed and humbled was Colonel Beall, at these words—
and more particularly at the severe reproof conveyed in the
cool and chilling politeness, and the ironical thanks of his
host. He at length found words to stammer forth an apol-
ogy, and a hope that Major Peters could forgive and forget.

Major Peters, with cold and lofty courtesy, assured him,
that when such a favour as he had received was conferred
upon him, and by one in a station where it was so little to be
expected, he could never forget it, and as to forgiving, he
knew of nothing to forgive—the colonel had deeply obliged
him, and, as far as circumstances enabled, he had striven to
return the obligation.

“But,” said Col. Beall, “in the winter, we live in Charles-
ton—have a round of parties and gayeties, pleasant to young
folks; you have daughters—now, you and your wife bring
them with you to town—make my house your home—and
let me, in some way, repay your kindness.”

“You owe me nothing, sir,” replied Major Peters, in the
same calm tone. “I have only discharged my duty.”

By this time the colonel’s family were in their carriage,
and he himself stepping in, sank in his seat, crest-fallen and
abashed. As they passed from the door, the major waved
them a farewell kiss, and retired.

Reader, our tale has a moral. Remember it—and in the
same way as did Major Peters, that—‘ one good turn deserves
another.”